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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



%X)t d5atetoay Series 

OF ENGLISH TEXTS 
GENERAL EDITOR 

HENRY VAN DYKE 

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IRVING IN 1823 (See page 286) 

Reproduced by permission of the authorities of the Royal Print Room, 
Dresden. 



GATEWAY SERIES 



SELECTIONS 

FROM 

IRVINGS SKETCH-BOOK 

il 

EDITED BY 
MARTIN W. SAMPSON, A.M. 

FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, INDIANA UNIVERSITY 




NEW YORK • . CINCINNATI •:• CHICAGO 

AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 



' MBRAR.V of CONGRESS 
iwo Cooles Received 

OCT gj I90r 

Copyright Entry 
Jiify ft. (<j*J 
CLASS A XXc, No, 

COPY B. 



^> 3 



Copyright, 1907, by 
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY. 



irving's sketch-book. 
W. P. I 



PREFACE 

This series of books aims, first, to give the English texts 
required for entrance to college in a form which shall make 
them clear, interesting, and helpful to those who are beginning 
the study of literature ; and, second, to supply the knowledge 
which the student needs to pass the entrance examination. 
For these two reasons it is called The Gateway Series. 

The poems, plays, essays, and stories in these small vol- 
umes are treated, first of all, as works of literature, which were 
written to be read and enjoyed, not to be parsed and scanned 
and pulled to pieces. A short life of the author is given, and 
a portrait, in order to help the student to know the real person 
who wrote the book. The introduction tells what it is about, 
and how it was written, and where the author got the idea, 
and what it means. The notes at the foot of the page are 
simply to give the sense of the hard words so that the student 
can read straight on without turning to a dictionary. The 
other notes, at the end of the book, explain difficulties and 
allusions and fine points. 

The editors are chosen because of their thorough training 
and special fitness to deal with the books committed to them, 
and because they agree with this idea of what a Gateway 
Series ought to be. They express, in each case, their own 
views of the books which they edit. Simplicity, thorough- 
ness, shortness, and clearness, — these, we hope, will be the 
marks of the series. 

HENRY VAN DYKE. 



CONTENTS 



Biography . 

Introduction 

The Voyage 

Christmas 

The Stage-Coach 

Christmas Eve . 

Christmas Day . 

The Christmas Dinner 

Rural Life in England 

The Country Church 

Westminster Abbey . 

The Mutability of Literature 

The Art of Book-Making 

Stratford-on-Avon 

The Angler 

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 

Rip Van Winkle 

Notes . 



7 

17 
35 
44 
52 
62 

78 

97 
117 
127 
135 
J 5i 
166 
176 
203 
216 
260 
287 



BIOGRAPHY 

Irving's life was by no means a usual one for a man 
of letters, and yet it cannot be called an adventurous 
life or even in its incidents especially striking. Com- 
pared with Byron's or George Borrow's, it was mild and 
simple ; although when set against Wordsworth's or Em- 
erson's, Irving's career seems almost public. It was, 
however, a quiet life that the author led ; the two public 
positions of honour that came to him involved him in no 
exciting crises. If we seek an adjective to characterize 
his life, we shall probably rest satisfied with such a word 
as " significant." He enjoyed advantages far beyond most 
of his fellow-countrymen of the first half of the last cen- 
tury, and he used these advantages wholly for the good 
of our growing literature, helping to restore between 
England and America the natural literary kinship that 
had been so violently disturbed by the American Revo- 
lution. 

Irving was born in New York, April 3, 1783, of parents 
who had come over from England and had successfully 
established themselves in America. What he was as a boy 
and young man, is told best in his own words that stand 
as a sort of preface to the Sketch- Book: 

" I was always fond of visiting new scenes, and observ- 
ing strange characters and manners. Even when a mere 

7 



8 The Sketch-Book 

child I began my travels, and made many tours of dis- 
covery into foreign parts and unknown regions of my native 
city, to the frequent alarm of my parents, and the emolu- 
ment of the town- crier. As I grew into boyhood, I ex- 
tended the range of my observations. My holiday 
afternoons were spent in rambles about the surrounding 
country. I made myself familiar with all its places 
famous in history or fable. I knew every spot where 
a murder or robbery had been committed, or a ghost 
seen. I visited the neighbouring villages, and added 
greatly to my stock of knowledge by noting their habits 
and customs, and conversing with their sages and great 
men. I even journeyed one long summer's day to the 
summit of the most distant hill, whence I stretched my 
eye over many a mile of terra incognita, and was aston- 
ished to find how vast a globe I inhabited. 

" This rambling propensity strengthened with my 
years. Books of voyages and travels became my pas- 
sion, and in devouring their contents, I neglected the 
regular exercises of the school. How wistfully would 
I wander about the pier-heads in fine weather, and watch 
the parting ships, bound to distant climes; with what 
longing eyes would I gaze after their lessening sails, 
and waft myself in imagination to the ends of the 
earth ! 

"Further reading and thinking, though they brought 
this vague inclination into more reasonable bounds, only 
served to make it more decided. I visited various parts 
of my own country ; and had I been merely a lover of 
fine scenery, I should have felt little desire to seek else- 



Biography 9 

where its gratification, for on no country have the charms 
of nature been more prodigally lavished. . . . 

"But Europe held forth the charms of storied and 
poetical association. There were to be seen the master- 
pieces of art, the refinements of highly cultivated society, 
the quaint peculiarities of ancient and local custom, My 
native country was full of youthful promise : Europe was 
rich in the accumulated treasures of age. Her very ruins 
told the history of times gone by, and every moulder- 
ing stone was a chronicle. I longed to wander over the 
scenes of renowned achievement, — to tread, as it were, 
in the footsteps of antiquity, — to loiter about the ruined 
castle, — to meditate on the falling tower, — to escape, in 
short, from the commonplace realities of the present, 
and lose myself among the shadowy grandeurs of the 
past. . . . 

" It has been either my good or evil lot to have my 
roving passion gratified. I have wandered through dif- 
ferent countries, and witnessed many of the shifting 
scenes of life. I cannot say that I have studied them 
with the eye of a philosopher, but rather with the saun- 
tering gaze with which humble lovers of the picturesque 
stroll from the window of one print-shop to another, 
caught sometimes by the delineations of beauty, some- 
times by the distortions of caricature, and sometimes by 
the loveliness of landscape. . . ." 

Irving was intended for the law, a profession that does 
not very well accord with the "roving passion", but his 
health gave way in the midst of his studies, and a voyage 
to Europe was prescribed for him. We may almost as- 



io The Sketch-Book 

sume that his cure began with the mere announcement of 
the good fortune before him. The spirit of his first journey 
(albeit a little older in tone in the written words) is told 
in the opening essay of this volume, The Voyage. On this 
trip he went as far as Italy, a country which seems, con- 
trary to its usual effect upon romantic minds, to have left 
less impression upon him than either England or Spain. 

After returning to America, he was admitted to the bar, 
but, following his inclinations, he did not practise, but 
turned to writing. With his brother and a friend he pro- 
duced Salmagundi, a work of the sort implied by its name, 
— a mixture. In 1809 appeared his Knickerbocker 's His- 
tory of New York, a volume intended partly as a take-off 
on some current guide-book to New York, and partly as a 
humorous yet kindly portrayal of the old Dutch settlers 
of New Amsterdam. The success of this book placed 
Irving in the public mind as a writer of much promise. 
It has genial humour and sympathetic insight and no small 
power of creating character. 

In 1 8 15, little dreaming that he was to remain abroad 
for seventeen years, Irving sailed again for Liverpool, 
to have some oversight, though not management, of his 
brother's business there. Bankruptcy fell upon the house 
after some years, and Irving found himself compelled to 
seek self-support by his writing. He had made a number 
of sketches or essays which he had sent to America for 
occasional publication, and which, after appearing there, 
had been copied, with favourable comment, in a Lon- 
don periodical. These sketches Irving determined to col- 
lect and publish in book form in America and England. 



Biography 1 1 

The American edition of this Sketch- Book appeared in 
1819. 

Irving's effort to find an English publisher was not im- 
mediately successful. Because of the light it throws on 
his own character, and for the sake of the glimpse it gives 
of a greater author, Walter Scott, the whole story may be 
told here, and mainly in Irving's own words, drawn from 
the preface to the revised edition of 1848. Irving first 
tried the noted publisher, John Murray, who saw merit in 
the essays submitted to him, but who declined to publish 
a volume which he believed would not be successful. 

"This was disheartening," writes Irving, "and might 
have deterred me from any further prosecution of the 
matter, had the question of republication in Great Britain 
rested entirely with me; but I apprehended the appear- 
ance of a spurious edition. I now thought of Mr. Archi- 
bald Constable as publisher, having been treated by him 
with much hospitality during a visit to Edinburgh ; but 
first I determined to submit my work to Sir Walter (then 
Mr.) Scott, being encouraged to do so by the cordial re- 
ception I had experienced from him at Abbotsford a few 
years previously, and by the favourable opinion he had ex- 
pressed to others of my earlier writings. I accordingly 
sent him the printed numbers of the Sketch-Book in a 
parcel by coach, and at the same time wrote to him, hint- 
ing that, since I had had the pleasure of partaking of his 
hospitality, a reverse had taken place in my affairs which 
made the successful exercise of my pen all-important to 
me ; I begged him, therefore, to look over the literary 
articles I had forwarded to him, and, if he thought they 



12 The Sketch- Book 

would bear European republication, to ascertain whether 
Mr. Constable would be inclined to be the publisher. 

" The parcel containing my work went by coach to 
Scott's address in Edinburgh ; the letter went by mail to 
his residence in the country. By the very first post I re- 
ceived a reply, before he had seen my work. 

"'I was down at Kelso/ said he, 'when your letter 
reached Abbotsford. I am now on my way to town, and 
will converse with Constable, and do all in my power to 
forward your views — I assure you nothing will give me 
more pleasure/ 

"The hint, however, about a reverse of fortune had 
struck the quick apprehension of Scott, and, with that 
practical and efficient good-will which belonged to his 
nature, he had already devised a way of aiding me." 

Scott's plan was the unexpected and rather startling offer 
to Irving of the editorship of a new weekly periodical 
about to be started in Edinburgh. The undertaking was 
to have "somewhat of a political bearing," and Scott was 
not sure that Irving would like it. 

" ' Yet I risk the question/ added he, ' because I know 
no man so well qualified for this important task, and per- 
haps because it will necessarily bring you to Edinburgh. 
If my proposal does not suit, you need only keep the 
matter secret, and there is no harm done. . . .' 

" In a postscript, written from Edinburgh, he adds, ' I 
am just come here, and have glanced over the Sketch- 
Book. It is positively beautiful, and increases my desire 
to crimps you, if it be possible. Some difficulties there 

^To seize forcibly, as a seaman was pressed for a vessel. 



Biography 13 

always are in managing such a matter, especially at the 
outset ; but we will obviate them as much as we possibly 
can.' 

" The following is from an imperfect draught of my reply, 
which underwent some modifications in the copy sent : — 

"'I cannot express how much I am gratified by your 
letter. I had begun to feel as if I had taken an unwar- 
rantable liberty ; but, somehow or other, there is a genial 
sunshine about you that warms every creeping thing into 
heart and confidence. Your literary proposal both sur- 
prises and flatters me, as it evinces a much higher opinion 
of my talents than I have myself.' 

" I then went on to explain that I found myself pecul- 
iarly unfitted for the situation offered to me, not merely 
by my political opinions, but by the very constitution and 
habits of my mind. ' My whole course of life,' I observed, 
' has been desultory, and I am unfitted for any periodically 
recurring task, or any stipulated labour of body or mind. 
I have no command of my talents, such as they are, and 
have to watch the varyings of my mind as I would those 
of a weathercock. Practice and training may bring me 
more into rule ; but at present I am as useless for regular 
service as one of my own country Indians or a Don 
Cossack.' " 

Scott endeavoured to have Constable, the Edinburgh 
publisher, undertake the work, but before negotiations 
could be brought to a successful conclusion, Irving pub- 
lished his essays, at his own risk, at the hands of a book- 
seller. Within a month the bookseller failed, and the sale 
stopped. 



14 The Sketch-Book 

"At this juncture Scott arrived in London. I called 
to him for help, as I was sticking in the mire, and, more 
propitious than Hercules, he put his own shoulder to the 
wheel. Through his favourable representations, Murray 
was quickly induced to undertake the future publication 
of the work which he had previously declined. A further 
edition of the first volume was struck off, and the second 
volume was put to press, and from that time Murray 
became my publisher, conducting himself in all his deal- 
ings with that fair, open, and liberal spirit which had ob- 
tained for him the well-merited appellation of the Prince 
of Booksellers. 

"Thus, under the kind and cordial auspices of Sir 
Walter Scott, I began my literary career in Europe ; and 
I feel that I am but discharging, in a trifling degree, my 
debt of gratitude to'the memory of that golden-hearted 
man in acknowledging my obligations to him. — But who 
of his literary contemporaries ever applied to him for aid 
or counsel that did not experience the most prompt, gen- 
erous, and effectual assistance ! " 

The English edition of the Sketch-Book was published 
in 1820. It was very successful, and Irving followed it up 
with Braced ridge Hall in 1822, and Tales of a Traveller 
in 1824. His work had now brought him into comfortable 
circumstances so far as money was concerned, and into 
delightful circumstances so far as friends were concerned. 
His talents opened all doors to him, and his personality 
made him always welcome. He was the first American 
author to win English recognition and approbation. 

Possibly his success had its drawbacks. In the mind 



Biography 15 

of so good a critic as the late Dr. Richard Garnett, of 
London, Irving's English vogue thwarted to some degree 
his possibilities as an original writer. There is truth in 
this observation, for Irving undoubtedly was of that class 
of authors who seek to please others, rather than to satisfy 
themselves regardless of praise or blame. And therefore 
Irving took something of his colour from his surroundings, 
and these surroundings were, for a long time, English. 
But it is certainly an open question whether an aggressive 
Americanism would at that time have won him a hearing, 
and it is not at all certain that in any surroundings Irving 
would have been essentially different from what he was. 
The fact is simply that this man of refined feeling, or 
sensibility, as it used to be called, found congenial themes 
during his English residence : had he lived on the western 
prairies, possibly he might have been stronger and rougher, 
but possibly he might have seemed bookish and artificial, 
through inability to translate the abounding new life into 
terms of romance. We must leave the speculation there. 

After his English sojourn, Irving engaged in travel, and, 
finding Madrid agreeable, made it his home for some 
years. The literary results of his Spanish residence are 
the Life of Columbus (1828), followed by the Companions 
of Columbus, then the Conquest of Granada, then the 
Alhambra. These volumes show careful study of his 
themes. In the modern sense of the word, Irving cannot 
be counted a great historical scholar ; rather, he was an 
accomplished gentleman writing upon historical subjects, 
and doing it extremely well. 

In 183 1, a year before his return to America, Irving 



1 6 The Sketch-Book 

was appointed by President Jackson charge d'affaires of 
the American legation in London. In 1832 he came 
back to the United States, and was enthusiastically wel- 
comed. A trip to the western parts of the country re- 
sulted in two volumes, Astoria and Captain Bonneville, 
the former written at the suggestion of John Jacob Astor, 
the founder of the Oregon settlement, Astoria, and the 
latter a working-over of some pioneer reminiscences. 

In 1842 Irving was appointed by President Tyler Amer- 
ican minister to Spain, where he successfully represented 
his country for four years. After his return home, he 
wrote his Life of Goldsmith (1848), not a work of in- 
vestigation, but a thoroughly pleasant condensation of 
Forster's Life. Goldsmith was a most congenial subject, 
perhaps the most congenial Irving could have chosen, 
and he filled the book with his own spirit. 

A period of literary inactivity was followed by Mahomet 
and his Successors in 1850, and by the first volume of the 
Life of George Washington five years later. This work of 
Irving's old age lacks the vitality and charm that was still 
apparent in the Goldsmith. On November 28, 1859, the 
year of the publication of his last volume, Irving died, full 
of years and honour. Sunnyside, his house on the Hudson, 
passed to his next of kin : he had never married. 

It will be seen that Irving's life was mainly a literary one. 
Apart from his literary productions, the three facts that 
stand out most clearly are his long residence abroad, his 
winning an English audience for American books, and his 
appointment to Spain, — one of the many tributes which 
American politics has worthily rendered to American letters. 



INTRODUCTION 

In his own lifetime Irving was probably the most im- 
portant figure in American literature. But in literary 
matters people are not usually very grateful for past ser- 
vices. We are prone to value an author for what he can 
give us to-day, not for what he gave us yesterday ; and 
although we often recognize our past debt, it does not 
seem to us to call for present payment. When the ser 
vice was rendered not in our own youthful days, but in 
the youth of our nation, the sense of gratitude is still 
more remote. Suppose Irving did much for American 
literature, we ask, will he do something pleasant and 
beneficial for us? The question is a practical one, at 
least. 

The answer to the question, let me say at once, is Yes. 
But before giving reasons for that answer, I should like 
to explain something that is involved in what has already 
been said. We ought, indeed, to require of a writer that 
he shall give us something good, — another way of saying 
that he ought to be true to the principles of his art, — 
but we ought to be ready to give as well as to take, and 
we ought, as students, to encourage in ourselves that 
historical sense which peoples the past with living forms 
instead of with dry dates and facts. In tracing literary 
influences, in revivifying a by-gone day, we are doing 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 2 1 7 



1 8 The Sketch-Book 

more than arousing and gratifying a petty curiosity. We 
are coming closer to other truths and other facts than 
those immediately about us, and therefore we are learn- 
ing more about life. We say that travel gives us new 
experience. That is true ; and learning to know the past 
is to travel in the region of time, just as surely as taking 
a journey is to travel in the region of space. It would 
be wholly worth our while to study Washington Irving 
for the single reason, that to our beginning literature he 
brought a fine, true impulse, and established cordial rela- 
tions with our kinsmen beyond the ocean. 

But Irving has more than this to give us. We may 
meet the most ardent ignorers of the past on their own 
ground and point out to them in Irving, and in these 
essays chosen from his Sketch-Book, things of present-day 
value to those into whose hands this volume will come. 

Irving is commonly and truly accounted to possess 
charm. Charm is not easy to define, as any one may see 
who remarks the quality in a friend or neighbour, and then 
tries to explain it to an acquaintance. But let us seek to 
explain this quality of charm in Irving, not that we may 
have the sense of accomplishing a duty, but that in the 
end we may know Irving better, and, knowing one writer 
better, be competent to understand all writers better. 

I think that I feel in him first of all a pleasant friend- 
liness. I read page after page, and find nothing sharp, 
nothing bitter, nothing hostile. He is not a flabby 
yielder to every man's opinion, he has a backbone of his 
own ; but he likes life, and he likes people, and feels 
wholly willing to show his liking freely. You can hardly 



Introduction 19 

read a dozen pages without feeling that it would be pleas- 
ant to know the author, and that if you knew him, he 
would meet you more than halfway. 

That is a sign of health, is it not? and Irving is healthy 
and wholesome. His mind is clear and sane, his influ- 
ence sound. He is drawn to congenial things, to things 
clean and pleasant, like himself; and by virtue of this 
power he passes on to you, through the medium of his 
writing, many of the fine and noble and inspiring things 
that have appealed to him. 

That is as much as to say that he transmits well, — he 
is a good conductor, if one may apply the electric image 
to one who lived before these days of practical electricity. 
Note well the things he thus transmits. His soul is 
attracted to nothing low or vulgar, nor is it led away by 
mere gorgeousness or by idle sentimentality. He sees 
the true romance in life, and when, as not infrequently, 
he speaks of matters that might be deemed common- 
place, it is because he sees in them not the commonplace, 
but romance itself. Irving, like Longfellow, brings to his 
fellow-countrymen a thing we Americans instinctively 
crave, the romance from overseas ; and, more than Long- 
fellow, he reveals some of the romance in things nearer 
home, — on the whole, a truer, more perfect gift. 

He loses no national quality in adventuring into far-off 
fields. Irving is the same lover of his own country 
whether he is writing of the Catskill Mountains or of 
Westminster Abbey. And 'in this preservation of his 
own independence, he gives one proof the more of an 
author's right to find his material at home or abroad. 



20 The Sketch-Book 

Charity is proverbially said to begin at home, but liter- 
ature begins anywhere : it is at home where its inspiration 
arises : and where inspiration is not present it is a stranger, 
though the scene be the domestic hearth itself. 

Irving has excellent insight. As that word implies, his 
vision does not stop at the surface of things ; it penetrates 
to the essentials, to the heart. The meaning, the signifi- 
cance, of scenes and actions grows clear to him; he 
understands what he sees. And as practice tends, in other 
matters, to make perfect, so his habit of looking deeply 
grows itself more deep and tends toward perfectness ; he 
becomes expert in his insight, more and more certain in 
his judgements, — a safe guide to follow. 

Observation, which is the power to note external facts, 
is often granted to a man, without the balancing gift of 
insight along with it. But almost never, I think, is insight 
bestowed upon a person who lacks the power of observa- 
tion. It is almost as if observation gave the premises, 
insight the conclusion. And what conclusions can be 
drawn without premises ? Be that as it may, observation, 
and excellent observation, is one of Irving's qualities. 
He sees things, as well as sees into things. Many and 
many a fact that a careless eye would not see, that an 
ordinary eye would not especially note, he sees keenly 
and records vividly. 

No one can record, either vividly or tamely, all that he 
sees : in a day one sees more than he could tell in a week. 
Whoever records must choose between what is worth 
mentioning, and what is not worth mentioning, — or, more 
accurately, he must choose between things pre-eminently 



Introduction 21 

worth speaking of, and things that only fairly well deserve 
that honour. The instinct which leads to the right choice 
is called the power of selection. Perhaps we might more 
truly name it the sense of proportion, since it is that gift 
which makes the proper choice because it sees the proper 
relations of things : it sees a large object as large, and a 
small object as small. This is not so easy a matter when 
one is very close to the object: a pencil held near the 
eye will shut out the view of a mountain range. But the 
sense of proportion applies not merely to large and small ; 
it applies even more to important and unimportant. To 
say, then, that Irving has the sense of proportion is to say 
that he knows what is worth writing about. 

Of course, to know what is worth while to write does 
not imply the ability to write it. Irving has the power of 
transferring into language the things that strike his ret- 
ina, his outward sight, and the things that he sees with 
his inner vision. He has the gift of apt description, of 
quiet, truthful explaining, of illuminating interpretation. 

He writes without making a parade of his power to 
write. He does not indulge in elaborate word-painting 
where a few pleasant words suffice. Still less does he 
seek to make his thoughts seem greater and finer than 
they really are, — clouding or spoiling a plain thought by 
the use of many high-sounding but empty words. Such 
an insincerity one often finds in seconcj-rate political 
orators who utter commonplaces in swelling sentences. 
In authors this misuse of language is ironically called 
" fine writing," — a somewhat unfortunate term, because 
it wastes an expression otherwise good. Of this artificial 



22 The Sketch-Book 

heaping-up of words Irving shows no trace : he means 
what he says ; his writing possesses sincerity. 

It possesses simplicity as well. You must not regard 
simplicity in a writer as something akin to language 
adapted to children. Simplicity means the power of 
making plain, and there could hardly be a greater 
triumph than to tell a difficult, subtle thought in such a 
way that everybody can understand it. Irving never 
avoids speaking of shades of meaning, but he does not 
search for subtleties. His usually well-composed sen- 
tences, moreover, do their share toward making his mean- 
ing apparent. 

His simplicity of style rests upon his simplicity of 
thinking. The man himself is so straightforward and 
frank that he looks about him not unemotionally, but 
undisturbed. Among the intricate forces whose mani- 
festations we call life, he has found his bearings, and, there- 
fore, being steadfast, his point of view does not waver ; 
and since his point of view is fixed fast, he can look upon 
wavering, mutable things with some sense of certainty. 

I would not imply that Irving has unravelled so many 
of the mysteries of existence that he can submit to us a 
calm reason for any turbulence of life. Many such prob- 
lems, indeed, to which great geniuses have offered an- 
swers, are quite out of his power to solve. But I do 
mean that he looked at life receptively, and the fine 
gentlehood of his own nature made what he saw seem 
clear and righteous, instead of an inextricable muddle 
of incomprehensible activities. He had simplicity of 
thought because of his inherent faith in his fellow- men. 



Introduction 23 

And this gives his style its peculiar quality of mel- 
lowness. It is too easy an explanation of this fine 
quality in Irving, to say that he acquired it from Ad- 
dison or, particularly, from Goldsmith. If it were so 
easily imitable, why has it not been oftener imitated 
successfully? It arises mainly from the warmth of 
Irving's fine-grained nature ; and the influence of his 
English predecessors in essay writing was an influence 
that only cultivated, and did not create, his natural 
quality. 

Irving's humour, a very real thing, is pleasant. He is 
not an inveterate joker, but still less does he present a 
countenance of unrelieved solemnity. Like most other 
men who are really alive, he feels in the presence of the 
preposterous, the ridiculous, the incongruous, that quick, 
cheerful reaction which we call a sense of humour. It 
adds a ray of sunniness to his style. 

That he modelled this- style upon men whom he was 
willing to regard and to proclaim his literary masters, 
is nothing to his discredit. It is true that the tremen- 
dous works of genius come only from those who break 
roads through untrodden wildernesses of thought, but we 
have room and to spare for noble-minded writers who 
are yet not of the clan of Shakespeare and Dante \ just 
as in our own acquaintanceship we find hearty place for 
persons who, not being the keenest minds we know, are 
yet near to us and inspiring by reason of their strength 
and friendliness. The debt of Irving to Goldsmith, who 
himself is not one of the mighty, is a debt of guidance, 
— a genuine debt, but not a bankruptcy. Goldsmith 



24 The Sketch-Book 

gave Irving few ideas, I think, but he helped him to a 
style. 

This style is smooth and fluent. The writer avoids 
harsh-sounding words and abrupt rhythms ; his sentences 
move gracefully. To be fair, two points must be noted 
here. One is that too much value may be placed upon 
smoothness of style; elegance sometimes palls. The 
other point is, that Irving, although writing what would 
once have been termed a polished style, fails now and 
then to rub off the unevennesses. He is not especially 
fastidious, not a real purist in speech, and several times 
his meaning is apparent, through no virtue of his word- 
arrangement. This latter point calls for notice, because 
such writers as De Quincey and Cardinal Newman and 
Walter Pater have taught us, by force of their example, 
that unremitting care and precision in an extreme degree 
are wholly consonant with clear and definite effects. 

Along with whatever of his style he may have gained 
from Goldsmith, Irving also drew something from that 
genial master's spring of inspiration, the respect for good 
taste that distinguished the eighteenth century. This is 
a thing too often spoken of slightingly ; and Goldsmith, 
who revolted against eighteenth- century absurdities, is 
hastily deemed to have revolted against the whole eigh- 
teenth-century system. He did not ; he was a creature 
of that century, of its gentlest mood, as later, too, was 
Lamb : and Irving, as a child of the nineteenth century, 
kept his heart and mind open to the best influences of 
the days that had given him the author he counted his 
master. We, in the twentieth century, must certainly 



Introduction 25 

come again to a deeper respect for a period which, 
with all its limitations, did so much for the preservation 
of good ideals in the English-speaking race. 

Putting together a few of the notes we have been col- 
lecting, we may now see readily why Irving, fine-grained, 
frank, observant, even-tempered, gentle, keen, chose so 
instinctively this essay form. He saw life simply and 
meditatively, and wished neither to overturn society nor 
to expose its terrors or its depths. Poetry, drama, the 
novel, — these forms he liked, but with them he had no 
creative affinity. The pleasant discursive essay, among 
the writers of which he ranks honourably with Addison, 
Goldsmith, Hazlitt, Lamb, and (though in somewhat dif- 
ferent form) Oliver Wendell Holmes, afforded him his 
opening. 

A word regarding this especial essay form. If you read 
the trenchantly brief essays of Bacon, the longer, strik- 
ingly suggestive essays of Emerson, you will find yourself 
in the company of a thinker, of a seer, who used his prose 
to impart the highest and deepest knowledge that was at 
his command. Bacon, resting on his vast experience, 
was mainly concerned in summing up the phenomena of 
life ; Emerson, in inspiring the inexperienced many to 
face these phenomena with individual courage. Their 
prose forms partook of their purposes : Bacon's, compact, 
cogent, final ; Emerson's, rhapsodic, copious, — in a good 
sense of the word, rhetorical. Neither of these forms 
resembles the essay form of Irving and the others who 
used it before him : a form so satisfying in its general ef- 
fect that we must hope for its re-establishment, — it is too 



Q.6 The Sketch-Book 

good a mode of utterance to be lost. Irving handled it 
well. He wished neither to startle us into the acceptance 
of an almost intuitive revelation, as did Emerson, nor does 
he endeavour to pack into a few solid lines the essence of 
life-long thought, as did Bacon; he wished rather to 
please us wholesomely by letting us look, through his own 
clear, gently magnifying lenses, at parts of human life 
that are comfortable and tender and sane. On the 
whole, he did this best in his Sketch- B ook ; on the 
whole, best in the essays here selected from that volume. 
Let us now speak briefly of these essays in turn. 

Many years of invention have modified the conditions 
of oceanic travel, but The Voyage has not lost its power to 
portray the spirit of the first voyage to Europe. With 
quiet, gentle keenness the writer seizes the characteristic 
facts of life on board a vessel. It is not an account, a 
chronicle, of a voyage, it is an analysing, a portrayal, of one. 
Irving's temperate expression may sometimes make us 
underestimate his real insight : the things he says are not 
so easy to think of or to say, as they look after he has said 
them. In the second paragraph, for example, the con- 
trast between travel inland and travel by ocean is not only 
true, but subtly true. So well does he interpret the real 
essentials, that save where great changes have been made 
in the facts of travel, his comments have a present-day 
validity. 

For, in spite of the shortening of the transit, the Atlantic 
is still broad enough to make the steamer's passage " an 
excellent preparative." The " vast space of waters," no 
matter how rapidly crossed, is still a "blank page," — 



Introduction 27 

though not blank in the sense of being uninteresting : 
the ocean is always the ocean, and there is nothing petty 
about it. The most striking change in the travel is that 
the former monotony was left to be dispelled by the 
individual efforts of the passenger, while now the 
great transatlantic companies vie with one another to 
provide constant diversion for the passengers, and 
games and music often weary by their very abundance. 
There is a world-wide difference between the sailing 
packet that bore Irving to his destination, and a modern 
express steamer, whose wireless telegraphic apparatus 
makes possible the publication on board of a daily news- 
paper. 

The five Christmas essays preserve for us a beautiful 
tradition. Just as in The Voyage Irving was interpreting 
rather than narrating, — or, to put it more exactly, was 
using narration to make his interpretation clearer, — so 
here, he has set himself the task of conveying to us the 
true spirit of the English Christmas season, by recording 
those incidents which seem best to typify its charm. I 
• incline to feel that in this group of essays Irving is at his 
very best. Nowhere does he more heartily reveal that 
warm receptiveness — which in an author we call sym- 
pathy — of things that are lovely and generous in appear- 
ance and in mood. There is something almost musical 
in the way in which he states and restates and illustrates 
and develops his principal theme, the beautiful hospitality 
and good fellowship of the people of our race in that 
Christmas season, which of all the parts of the year is 
surely the best and noblest. 



28 The Sketch-Book 

There is a sort of natural art in Irving's presentation of 
his subject. First of all, he sees the Christmas festivities 
in place: by which I mean that he does not view them as 
merely interesting, isolated phenomena; he sees the 
present Christmas as the somewhat changed successor of 
former days ; he feels its religious and moral significance, 
and he also feels its historical quality. You will not 
readily find a better illustration of the " historical sense " 
spoken of early in this introduction than are these essays. 
And you may now the more readily understand the term 
and the essays, if you will imagine the difference between 
knowing a person just as he outwardly looks, and knowing 
a friend when you know his parents and his home life 
and his family history. To see anything in its proper 
surroundings, in its place, makes you the more sympa- 
thetic interpreter of it, not because you are more indul- 
gent, but because you are more intelligent : you have 
understood ; and upon understanding rests real sympathy, 
real enjoyment. 

Having then, in the first essay, revealed the spirit of 
the English Christmas, Irving goes on, in the following 
papers, to illustrate and amplify all that he has spoken of. 
The first essay ended with a touch recalling his own soli- 
tude : he is facing, not lightheartedly, yet courageously, 
a thing that tugs at the heart-strings, the sense of being 
far away from home or friends in the midst of the merry- 
making of a foreign land. The second essay, The Stage- 
Coach, interesting in itself, has a fine artistic value as 
well, in giving what I may term a suspensive effect ; the 
prospect of his loneliness is a veil which the writer does 



Introduction 29 

not rapidly lift. The festivities are coming, but he is a 
stranger in the land : there should be a natural approach 
to the intimate participation in the season's hospitali- 
ties, and this approach the essay provides. It is no 
digression ; even the long description of the coachman 
is in key with the rest because of its straightforward 
heartiness. 

The other three Christmas essays constitute really one 
essay divided into three chapters. Fortunate, indeed, was 
young Bracebridge's friend, Geoffrey Crayon, w r ho could 
thus enter into such delightful companionship, and who, 
we may be sure, was a welcome guest at the feast. It 
was such a celebration of Christmas as he might have 
wished to share in, had the choice been in his own hands. 
For here, shown in all its phases, is the historic Christmas 
in the midst of the new, the old appearing in the transi- 
tory, — tradition rubbing shoulders with current custom 
throughout all the glad observance of the Eve and the 
Day, in which the Dinner plays its large and hospitable 
part. A wealth of details — incident and observation — 
is poured out before us. Then the description suddenly 
comes to a close, and a tender, concluding paragraph 
shows us the writer again, thoughtful and simple, fine- 
hearted, and friendly to his fellow-men. 

The two essays, Rural Life and The Country Church, 
illustrate once more Irving's general good sense, his per- 
ception of distinctions, his ability to touch on essentials 
and to omit irrelevant points. Judgement and observation 
unite in his brief comments upon such varying things, in 
the one essay, as the Englishman's feeling for the coun- 



20 The Sketch-Book 

try, his love of flowers in country or town, the spirit of 
the London " season/' the fondness for landscape garden- 
ing on a large scale, the power of transforming small 
garden plots into things of beauty; and, in the other 
essay, the old church, the well-fed vicar (compare him 
with the vicar in Christmas Day), the distinction between 
the real nobleman and the upstart, and the unconscious 
identification of religious and political beliefs. It is more 
than merely interesting for us to consider, moreover, the 
national differences involved in the fact that Irving's de- 
scriptions of American life are long since out of date, 
while his descriptions of English life still, in the main, 
hold good. 

The meditation on Westminster Abbey, well written 
though it is, owes much of its reputation to its wonderful 
subject. This temple of the great dead of our race leaves 
no sensitive person unmoved, and imposes even upon the 
callous the silence of respect. Its spell, in part, passes 
over from the edifice itself to those serious descriptions 
of it which, perhaps never with complete success, seek to 
render its spirit. When one is versed in architecture, he 
may point out architectural flaws in the Abbey ; when one 
is versed in literature, he may point out defects in this 
piece of writing. I cannot regard it as a lapse from 
critical standards to suggest to the young reader that for 
the present he accept this sincere, thoughtful, and sympa- 
thetic essay for all that it may be worth to him, just as he 
might visit the Abbey, not as a student of architecture, 
but as a pilgrim. 

The two essays, The Mutability of Literature and The 



Introduction 31 

Art of Bo ok- Making, are fantasies, playful in mood, with 
a deeper undertone. When Irving employs satire, he 
always modifies it with gentleness. In his jests on authors 
he is usually willing to turn the joke against himself. In 
his allusions to scholarship he is hardly so fair, not because 
he says an unfair word, but because he leaves part of the 
truth unsaid. He himself loved to burrow in old books 
now and then, but not with scholarly intent, not with 
determination to master the lore of the past. Apart from 
the type of parasitic author portrayed in the Book- 
Making, apart from Irving's own type of pleasant taster 
of past learning, there exists the whole class of faithful 
scholars who by indefatigable research have reconstructed 
for us much of the past and have made it human again 
and inspiring. But Irving's small sin of omission need 
not be charged heavily against him, for he himself has 
made parts of the past live again ; and in these essays 
has brightly made fun of pedantry and presumption. 

The Stratford-on-Avon essay also preserves a beautiful 
memory for us, — not the memory of Shakespeare, which 
needs no preservation, but the memory of the little town 
itself. To-day its simplicity and gentle isolation has al- 
most been banished by the swarms of tourists, many of 
whom come, one fears, less to pay tribute to the poet 
than to credit their own account with one more famous 
place " done." It is a curious speculation to think that 
Irving, seeking to restore in his own mind a past, por- 
trayed for us the then present, which is now itself so 
much the past, that we must seek to restore it through 
such essays as this. Irving tried to see the Avon of 



32 The Sketch-Book 

Shakespeare rather than the Avon of his own day ; for 
us, it is hard enough to see the Avon of Irving's time. 
It is not that the town has been modernized, or the lovely 
surrounding country affected, but that many of the Shake- 
speare associations have been used for their full commer- 
cial worth, — advertised, as it were, to draw strangers. 
One would not belittle the real and often intense interest 
that makes Shakespeare's town an object of pilgrimage, 
nor can one blame the residents for making money out of 
the accident that a great poet was born and buried there 
three centuries ago. One only feels pained, for instance, 
that Irving's reverential description of the church no 
longer holds good : one sometimes may rub his eyes and 
wonder whether he is in a church or a railway station, so 
many are the staring, unchurchlike notices put up by the 
ecclesiastical authorities, so many are the swiftly passing 
tourists who come to see, see quickly, and pass out gaily 
to look at some other attraction. When it comes the 
turn of the younger readers of this book to stand at 
Shakespeare's tomb, it is commended to them that they 
keep in their hearts something of Irving's fine spirit, — 
a touch of reverence. 

The Angler is an essay too self-explanatory to need any 
interpretation or much comment. Irving gives us here, 
amiably and not without a touch of slyness, the expe- 
rience of many and many a lover of English literature who 
has been beguiled by his delight in Izaak Walton in his 
study, to try to become a practical disciple of that "com- 
pleat angler" at the brook-side. To Walton's volume, — 
which is of that class of books that no one likes merely 



Introduction 33 

halfway, a book that wholly charms you, but only if you 
surrender yourself to its charm, — to this book Irving does 
courteous justice, passing from the account of the manu- 
factured angler to the angler born. 

The two remaining papers are discursively narrated 
stories, just as the other papers are discursively written 
essays. We are not hurried through a sequence of events ; 
we pleasantly ramble from one incident to another. A 
sense of looseness of construction is averted by a style 
that keeps in the proper key, effecting thus a unity for the 
narrative. The Sleepy Hollow Legend is outranked by 
the Rip Van Winkle because of two reasons, neither of 
which is a matter resting wholly on the writer's skill. 
The first reason is that the material, the subject, of the 
latter legend is in itself more striking than the other : 
Ichabod Crane's adventure pales before Rip Van Winkle's. 
The second reason is that for generation after generation 
of Americans, Rip Van Winkle in dramatic form has 
been made a delight through the perfect acting of Joseph 
Jefferson in the title role. It will be many a day before 
the tradition of his presentation, full of a charm and colour 
and buoyant humour, passes out of memory. And mean- 
while, through the help of an actor, an author's story has 
become a household word. 

Here, then, follow the pages of Irving for you to read 
with that fair-minded receptiveness to anything good, 
that is the beginning of a liberal education. 



THE SKETCH-BOOK 3 



THE VOYAGE 

Ships, ships, I will descrie you 

Amidst the main, 
I will come and try you. 
What you are protecting, 

And projecting, e; 

What's your end and aim. 
One goes abroad for merchandise and trading, 
Another stays to keep his country from invading, 
A third is coming home with rich and wealthy lading, 

Halloo ! my fancie, whither wilt thou go? 10 

— Old Poem. 

To an American visiting Europe, the long voyage he 
has to make is an excellent preparative. The temporary 
absence of worldly scenes and employments produces a 
state of mind peculiarly fitted to receive new and vivid 15 
impressions. The vast space of waters that separates the 
hemispheres is like a blank page in existence. There is 
no gradual transition, by which, as in Europe, the features 
and population of one country blend almost imperceptibly 
with those of another. From the moment you lose sight 20 
of the land you have left, all is vacancy until you step on 
the opposite shore, and are launched at once into the 
bustle and novelties of another world. 

In travelling by land there is a continuity of scene and 
a connected succession of persons and incidents, that 25 

35 



36 The Sketch-Book 

carry on the story of life, and lessen the effect of absence 
and separation. We drag, it is true, "a lengthening 
chain " at each remove of our pilgrimage ; but the chain 
is unbroken : we can trace it back link by link ; and we 
5 feel that the last still grapples us to home. But a wide 
sea voyage severs us at once. It makes us conscious of 
being cast loose from the secure anchorage of settled life, 
and sent adrift upon a doubtful world. It interposes a 
gulf, not merely imaginary, but real, between us and our 

10 homes, — a gulf subject to tempest, and fear, and un- 
certainty, rendering distance palpable, and return pre- 
carious. 

Such, at least, was the case with myself. As I saw the 
last blue line of my native land fade away like a cloud in 

15 the horizon, it seemed as if I had closed one volume of 
the world and its concerns, and had time for meditation, 
before I opened another. That land, too, now vanishing 
from my view, which contained all most dear to me in 
life ; what vicissitudes might occur in it, what changes 

20 might take place in me, before I should visit it again ! 
Who can tell, when he sets forth to wander, whither he 
may be driven by the uncertain currents of existence ; or 
when he may return ; or whether it may ever be his lot 
to revisit the scenes of his childhood ? 

25 I said that at sea all is vacancy ; I should correct the 
expression. To one given to day-dreaming, and fond of 
losing himself in reveries, a sea voyage is full of subjects 
for meditation ; but then they are the wonders of the 
deep, and of the air, and rather tend to abstract the mind 

30 from worldly themes. I delighted to loll over the quarter- 



The Voyage 37 

railing, 1 or climb to the main-top, of a calm day, and 
muse for hours together on the tranquil bosom of a 
summer's sea ; to gaze upon the piles of golden clouds 
just peering above the horizon, fancy them some fairy 
realms, and people them with a creation of my own ; — 5 
to watch the gentle undulating billows, rolling their 
silver volumes, as if to die away on those happy shores. 

There was a delicious sensation of mingled security 
and awe with which I looked down, from my giddy height, 
on the monsters of the deep at their uncouth gambols. 10 
Shoals of porpoises tumbling about the bow of the ship ; 
the grampus slowly heaving his huge form above the 
surface ; or the ravenous shark, darting, like a spectre, 
through the blue waters. My imagination would conjure 
up all that I had heard or read of the watery world be- 15 
neath me ; of the finny herds that roam its fathomless 
valleys ; of the shapeless monsters that lurk among the very 
foundations of the earth ; and of those wild phantasms 
that swell the tales of fishermen and sailors. 

Sometimes a distant sail, gliding along the edge of the 20 
ocean, would be another theme of idle speculation. How 
interesting this fragment of a world, hastening to rejoin 
the great mass of existence ! What a glorious monument 
of human invention ; which has in a manner triumphed 
over wind and wave ; has brought the ends of the world 25 
into communion ; has established an interchange of bless- 
ings, pouring into the sterile regions of the north all the 
luxuries of the south ; has diffused the light of knowledge 
and the charities of cultivated life ; and has thus bound 
1 The railing of the deck aft the main-mast. 



38 The Sketch-Book 

together those scattered portions of the human race, 
between which nature seemed to have thrown an in- 
surmountable barrier. 

We one day descried some shapeless object drifting at 
5 a distance. At sea, everything that breaks the monotony 
of the surrounding expanse attracts attention. It proved 
to be the mast of a ship that must have been completely 
wrecked ; for there were the remains of handkerchiefs, by 
which some of the crew had fastened themselves to this 

io spar, to prevent their being washed off by the waves. 
There was no trace by which the name of the ship could 
be ascertained. The wreck had evidently drifted about 
for many months ; clusters of shell-fish had fastened about 
it, and long sea-weeds flaunted at its sides. But where, 

15 thought I, is the crew ? Their struggle has long been 
over, — they have gone down amidst the roar of the 
tempest, — their bones lie whitening among the caverns 
of the deep, Silence, oblivion, like the waves, have 
closed over them, and no one can tell the .story 

20 of their end. What sighs have been wafted after 
that ship ! what prayers offered up at the deserted fire- 
side of home ! How often has the mistress, the wife, the 
mother, pored over the daily news, to catch some casual 
intelligence of this rover of the deep ! How has expec- 

25 tation darkened into anxiety — anxiety into dread — and 
dread into despair ! Alas ! not one memento may ever 
return for love to cherish. All that may ever be known, 
is, that she sailed from her port, " and was never heard 
of more ! " 

30 The sight of this wreck, as usual, gave rise to many 



The Voyage 39 

dismal anecdotes. This was particularly the case in the 
evening, when the weather, which had hitherto been fair, 
began to look wild and threatening, and gave indications 
of one of those sudden storms which will sometimes 
break in upon the serenity of a summer voyage. As we 5 
sat round the dull light of a lamp in the cabin, that made 
the gloom more ghastly, every one had his tale of ship- 
wreck and disaster. I was particularly struck with a 
short one related by the captain. 

"As I was once sailing," said he, "in a fine stout ship 10 
across the banks of Newfoundland, one of those heavy 
fogs which prevail in those parts rendered it impossible 
for us to see far ahead even in the daytime ; but at night 
the weather was so thick that we could not distinguish 
any object at twice the length of the ship. I kept lights 15 
at the mast-head, and a constant watch forward to look 
out for fishing smacks, which are accustomed to lie at 
anchor on the banks. The wind was blowing a smack- 
ing breeze, and we were going at a great rate through 
the water. Suddenly the watch gave the alarm of ' a sail 20 
ahead ! ' — it was scarcely uttered before we were upon 
her. She was a small schooner, at anchor, with her 
broadside towards us. The crew were all asleep, and 
had neglected to hoist a light. We struck her just 
amidships. The force, the size, and weight of our vessel 25 
bore her down below the waves; we passed over her, and 
were hurried on our course. As the crashing wreck 
was sinking beneath us, I had a glimpse of two or three 
half-naked wretches rushing from her cabin ; they just 
started from their beds to be swallowed shrieking by the 30 



40 The Sketch-Book 

waves. I heard their drowning cry mingling with the 
wind. The blast that bore it to our ears swept us out of 
all farther hearing. I shall never forget that cry ! It 
was some time before we could put the ship about, she 
5 was under such headway. We returned, as nearly as we 
could guess, to the place where the smack had anchored. 
We cruised about for several hours in the dense fog. 
We fired signal guns, and listened if we might hear the 
halloo of any survivors ; but all was silent — we never saw 

10 or heard anything of them more.' , 

I confess these stories, for a time, put an end to all my 
fine fancies. The storm increased with the night. The 
sea was lashed into tremendous confusion. There was a 
fearful, sullen sound of rushing waves, and broken surges. 

15 Deep called unto deep. At times the black volume of 
clouds overhead seemed rent asunder by flashes of light- 
ning which quivered along the foaming billows, and made 
the succeeding darkness doubly terrible. The thunders 
bellowed over the wild waste of waters, and were echoed 

20 and prolonged by the mountain waves. As I saw the 
ship staggering and plunging among these roaring cav- 
erns, it seemed miraculous that she regained her balance, 
or preserved her buoyancy. Her yards ■ would dip into 
the water : her bow was almost buried beneath the waves. 

25 Sometimes an impending surge appeared ready to over- 
whelm her, and nothing but a dexterous movement of the 
helm preserved her from the shock. 

When I retired to my cabin, the awful scene still fol- 
lowed me. The whistling of the wind through the rig- 
1 The horizontal timbers from which the square sails hang. 



The Voyage 41 

ging sounded like funereal wailings. The creaking of the 
masts, the straining and groaning of bulkheads, 1 as the 
ship laboured in the weltering 2 sea, were frightful. As I 
heard the waves rushing along the sides of the ship, and 
roaring in my very ear, it seemed as if Death were raging 5 
round this floating prison, seeking for his prey : the mere 
starting of a nail, the yawning of a seam, 3 might give him 
entrance. 

A fine day, however, with a tranquil sea and favouring 
breeze, soon put all these dismal reflections to flight. It 10 
is impossible to resist the gladdening influence of fine 
weather and fair wind at sea. When the ship is decked 
out in all her canvas, every sail swelled, and careering 
gayly over the curling waves, how lofty, how gallant she 
appears — how she seems to lord it over the deep ! 15 

I might fill a volume with the reveries of a sea voyage, 
for with me it is almost a continual reverie, — but it is 
time to get to shore. 

It was a fine sunny morning when the thrilling cry of 
" land ! " was given from the mast-head. None but 20 
those who have experienced it can form an idea of the 
delicious throng of sensations which rush into an Ameri- 
can's bosom, when he first comes in sight of Europe. 
There is a volume of associations with the very name. 
It is the land of promise, teeming with everything of25 
which his childhood has heard, or on which his studious 
years have pondered. 

From that time until the moment of arrival, it was all 

1 The great cross-partitions. 2 Tumbling. 

3 Joining of boards. 



42 The Sketch-Book 

feverish excitement. The ships-of-war that prowled like 
guardian giants along the coast ; the headlands of Ireland, 
stretching out into the channel; the Welsh mountains, 
towering into the clouds ; all were objects of intense 
5 interest. As we sailed up the Mersey, I reconnoitred 1 
the shores with a telescope. My eye dwelt with delight 
on neat cottages, with their trim shrubberies and green 
grass plots. I saw the mouldering ruin of an abbey over- 
run with ivy, and the taper spire of a village church 

10 rising from the brow of a neighbouring hill ; — all were 
characteristic of England. 

The tide and wind were so favourable that the ship 
was enabled to come at once to the pier. It was 
thronged with people : some, idle lookers-on ; others, 

15 eager expectants of friends or relatives. I could distin- 
guish the merchant to whom the ship was consigned. 
I knew him by his calculating brow and restless air. His 
hands were thrust into his pockets; he was whistling 
thoughtfully, and walking to and fro, a small space having 

20 been accorded him by the crowd, in deference to his 
temporary importance. There were repeated cheerings 
and salutations interchanged between the shore and the 
ship, as friends happened to recognise each other. I 
particularly noticed one young woman of humble dress, 

25 but interesting demeanour. She was leaning forward 
from among the crowd ; her eye hurried over the ship as 
it neared the shore, to catch some wished-for counte- 
nance. She seemed disappointed and agitated ; when 
I heard a faint voice call her name. It was from a poor 
1 Examined. 



The Voyage 43 

sailor who had been ill all the voyage, and had excited 
the sympathy of every one on board. When the weather 
was fine, his messmates had spread a mattress for him on 
deck in the shade ; but of late his illness had so in- 
creased, that he had taken to his hammock, and only 5 
breathed a wish that he might see his wife before he died. 
He had been helped on deck as we came up the river, 
and was now leaning against the shrouds, 1 with a counte- 
nance so wasted, so pale, so ghastly, that it was no 
wonder even the eye of affection did not recognize him. 10 
But at the sound of his voice, her eye darted on his 
features : it read, at once, a whole volume of sorrow ; she 
clasped her hands, uttered a faint shriek, and stood 
wringing them in silent agony. 

All now was hurry and bustle. The meetings of 15 
acquaintances — the greeting of friends - — the consulta- 
tions of men of business. I alone was solitary and idle. 
I had no friend to meet, no cheering to receive. I 
stepped upon the land of my forefathers — but felt that 
I was a stranger in the land. 20 

1 Ropes used to stay the masts. 



CHRISTMAS 

But is old, old, good old Christmas gone? Nothing but the 
hair of his good, grey, old head and beard left? Well, I will have 
that, seeing I cannot have more of him. 

— Hue and Cry after Christmas. 

5 A man might then behold 

At Christmas, in each hall 
Good fires to curb the cold, 

And meat for great and small. 
The neighbours were friendly bidden, 
10 And all had welcome true; 

The poor from the gates were not chidden 
When this old cap was new. — Old Song. 

Nothing in England exercises a more delightful spell 
over my imagination than the lingerings of the holiday 

15 customs and rural games of former times. They re- 
call the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morn- 
ing of life, when as yet I only knew the world through 
books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it ; 
and they bring with them the flavour of those honest 

20 days of yore, in which, perhaps, with equal fallacy, I am 
apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and 
joyous than at present. I regret to say that they are 
daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn 
away by time, but still more obliterated by modern 

25 fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of 

44 



Christmas 45 

Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various 
parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of 
ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of 
later days. Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fond- 
ness about the rural game and holiday revel, from which 5 
it has derived so many of its themes — as the ivy winds 
its rich foliage about the Gothic arch and mouldering 
tower, gratefully repaying their support by clasping to- 
gether their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming 
them in verdure. 10 

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas 
awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. 
There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends 
with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hal- 
lowed and elevated enjoyment. The services of the 15 
church about this season are extremely tender and inspir- 
ing. They dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our 
faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its an- 
nouncement. They gradually increase in fervour and 
pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth 20 
in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and 
good will to men. I do not know a grander effect of 
music on the moral feelings than to hear the full choir 
and the pealing organ performing a Christmas anthem 
in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with 25 
triumphant harmony. 

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days 
of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the an- 
nouncement of the religion of peace and love, has been 
made the season for gathering together of family con- 30 



46 The Sketch-Book 

nexions, and drawing closer again those bands of kin- 
dred hearts, which the cares and pleasures and sorrows 
of the world are continually operating to cast loose ; of 
calling back the children of a family, who have launched 

5 forth in life, and wandered widely asunder, once more to 
assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying- place of 
the affections, there to grow young and loving again 
among the endearing mementos of childhood. 

There is something in the very season of the year that 

10 gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other 
times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the 
mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dis- 
sipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we 
" live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the 

15 murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, 
the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of 
autumn ; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and 
heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magni- 
ficence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we 

20 revel in the luxury of mere sensation. But in the depth 
of winter, when nature lies despoiled of every charm, and 
wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our 
gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and deso- 
lation of the landscape, the short gloomy days and dark- 

25 some nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut 
in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us 
more keenly disposed for the pleasure of the social circle. 
Our thoughts are more concentrated ; our friendly 
sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the 

30 charm of each other's society, and are brought more 



Christmas 47 

closely together by dependence on each other for enjoy- 
ment. Heart calleth unto heart ; and we draw our 
pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness, which 
lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms ; and which, when 
resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic 5 
felicity. 

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate on 
entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the 
evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial 
summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up 10 
each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does 
the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and 
more cordial smile — where is the shy glance of love 
more sweetly eloquent — than by the winter fireside? 
and as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the 15 
hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, 
and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grate- 
ful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with 
which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and 
the scene of domestic hilarity? 20 

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit 
throughout every class of society, have always been fond 
of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt 
the stillness of country life ; and they were, in former 
days, particularly observant of the religious and social 
rites of Christmas. It is inspiring to read even the dry 
details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint 
humours, 1 the burlesque pageants, the complete aban- 
donment to mirth and good-fellowship, with which this 
1 Fancies. 



48 The Sketch-Book 

festival was celebrated. It seemed to throw open every 
door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant 
and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm 
generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of 
5 castles and manor-houses resounded with the harp and 
the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned 
under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cot- 
tage welcomed the festive season with green decorations 
of bay and holly, — the cheerful fire glanced its rays 

10 through the lattice, inviting the passengers to raise the 
latch, and join the gossip knot huddled round the hearth, 
beguiling the long evening with legendary jokes and oft- 
told Christmas tales. 

One of the least pleasing effects of modern refinement 

15 is the havoc it has made among the hearty old holiday 
customs. It has completely taken off the sharp touch- 
ings and spirited reliefs of these embellishments of life, 
and has worn down society into a more smooth and 
polished, but certainly a less characteristic surface. 

20 Many of the games and ceremonials of Christmas have 
entirely disappeared, and, like the sherris sack 2 of old 
Falstaff, are become matters of speculation and dispute 
among commentators. They flourished in times full of 
spirit and lustihood, when men enjoyed life roughly, but 

25 heartily and vigorously; times wild and picturesque, 
which have furnished poetry with its richest materials, 
and the drama with its most attractive variety of characters 
and manners. The world has become more worldly. 
There is more of dissipation, and less of enjoyment. 
1 Dry {i.e. not sweet) sherry. 



Christmas 49 

Pleasure has expanded into a broader, but a shallower 
stream, and has forsaken many of those deep and quiet 
channels where it flowed sweetly through the calm bosom 
of domestic life. Society has acquired a more enlightened 
and elegant tone ; but it has lost many of its strong local 5 
peculiarities, its homebred feelings, its honest fireside 
delights. The traditionary customs of golden-hearted 
antiquity, its feudal hospitalities, and lordly wassailings, 1 
have passed away with the baronial castles and stately 
manor-houses in which they were celebrated. They 10 
comported with the shadowy hall, the great oaken gallery, 
and the tapestried parlour, but are unfitted to the light 
showy saloons and gay drawing-rooms of the modern villa. 
Shorn, however, as it is, of its ancient and festive 
honours, Christmas is still a period of delightful excite- 15 
ment in England. It is gratifying to see that home-feeling 
completely aroused which holds so powerful a place in 
every English bosom. The preparations making on 
every side for the social board that is again to unite 
friends and kindred ; the presents of good cheer passing 20 
and repassing, those tokens of regard, and quickeners of 
kind feelings ; the evergreens distributed about houses, 
and churches, emblems of peace and gladness ; all these 
have the most pleasing effect in producing fond associa- 
tions, and kindling benevolent sympathies. Even the 25 
sound of the Waits, 2 rude as may be their minstrelsy, 
breaks upon the mid-watches of a winter night with the 
effect of perfect harmony. As I have been awakened by 

1 Carousals. 

2 Singers of Christmas carols out of doors at night. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 4 



50 The Sketch-Book 

them in that still and solemn hour, " when deep sleep 
falleth upon man," I have listened with a hushed delight, 
and, connecting them with the sacred and joyous occasion, 
have almost fancied them into another celestial choir, 

5 announcing peace and good will to mankind. 

How delightfully the imagination, when wrought upon 
by these moral influences, turns everything to melody and 
beauty ! The very crowing of the cock, heard sometimes 
in the profound repose of the country, " telling the night- 

10 watches to his feathery dames," was thought by the com- 
mon people to announce the approach of this sacred 
festival. 

" Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes 
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated, 
15 This bird of dawning singe th all night long; 

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad; 
The nights are wholesome — then no planets strike, 
No fairy takes, no witch hath power to charm, 
So hallow'd and so gracious is the time." x 

20 Amidst the general call to happiness, the bustle of the 
spirits, and stir of the affections, which prevail at this 
period, what bosom can remain insensible? It is, indeed, 
the season of regenerated feeling — the season for kin- 
dling, not merely the fire of hospitality in the hall, but the 

25 genial flame of charity in the heart. 

The scene of early love again rises green to memory 
beyond the sterile waste of years ; and the idea of home, 
fraught with the fragrance of home-dwelling joys, reani- 
mates the drooping spirit ; as the Arabian breeze will 

1 Inexactly quoted : see Notes. 



Christmas 



5 1 



sometimes waft the freshness of the distant fields to the 
weary pilgrim of the desert. 

Stranger and sojourner as I am in the land — though 
for me no social hearth may blaze, no hospitable roof 
throw open its doors, nor the warm grasp of friendship 5 
welcome me at the threshold — yet I feel the influence 
of the season beaming into my soul from the happy looks 
of those around me. Surely, happiness is reflective, like 
the light of heaven ; and every countenance, bright 
with smiles, and glowing with innocent enjoyment, is a 10 
mirror transmitting to others the rays of a supreme and 
ever-shining benevolence. He who can turn churlishly 
away from contemplating the felicity of his fellow-beings, 
and can sit down darkling and repining in his loneliness 
when all around is joyful, may have his moments of 15 
strong excitement and selfish gratification, but he wants 
the genial and social sympathies which constitute the 
charm of a merry Christmas. 



THE STAGE-COACH 

Omne bene 
Sine pcena 
Tempus est ludendi. 
Venit hora 
5 Absque mora 

Libros deponendi. 

— Old Holiday School Song. 

In the preceding paper I have made some general 
observations on the Christmas festivities of England, and 

ioam tempted to illustrate them by some anecdotes of a 
Christmas passed in the country ; in perusing which I 
would most courteously invite my reader to lay aside the 
austerity of wisdom, and to put on that genuine holiday 
spirit which is tolerant of folly, and anxious only for 

15 amusement. 

In the course of a December tour in Yorkshire, I rode 
for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the 
day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both 
inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, 

20 seemed principally bound to the mansions of relations or 
friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also 
with hampers of game, and baskets and boxes of delica- 
cies ; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the 
coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the 

25 impending feast. I had three fine rosy-cheeked boys for 

52 



The Stage-Coach 53 

my fellow-passengers inside, full of the buxom health and 
manly spirit which I have observed in the children of this 
country. They were returning home for the holidays in 
high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoy- 
ment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the 5 
little rogues, and the impracticable feats they were to 
perform during their six weeks* emancipation from the 
abhorred thraldom of book, birch, and pedagogue. They 
were full of anticipations of the meeting with the family 
and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the 10 
joy they were to give their little sisters by the presents 
with which their pockets were crammed ; but the meeting 
to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest 
impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, 
and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues 15 
than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. 1 How he 
could trot ! how he could run ! and then such leaps as he 
would take — there was not a hedge in the whole country 
that he could not clear. 

They were under the particular guardianship of the 20 
coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, 
they addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him 
one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could 
not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and 
importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little 25 
on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens 
stuck in the button-hole of his coat. He is always a 
personage full of mighty care and business, but he is 
particularly so during this season, having so many com- 
1 The horse of Alexander the Great. 



54 The Sketch-Book 

missions to execute in consequence of the great inter- 
change of presents. And here, perhaps, it may not be un- 
acceptable to my untravelled readers, to have a sketch that 
may serve as a general representation of this very numerous 

5 and important class of functionaries, who have a dress, a 
manner, a language, an air, peculiar to themselves, and 
prevalent throughout the fraternity; so that, wherever 
an English stage- coachman may be seen, he cannot be 
mistaken for one of any other craft or mystery. 1 

10 He has commonly a broad, full face, curiously mottled 
with red, as if the blood had been forced by hard feeding 
into every vessel of the skin ; he is swelled into jolly 
dimensions by frequent potations of malt liquors, and 
his bulk is still further increased by a multiplicity of 

15 coats, in which he is buried like a cauliflower, the upper 
one reaching to his heels. He wears a broad-brimmed, 
low-crowned hat ; a huge roll of coloured handkerchief 
about his neck, knowingly knotted and tucked in at the 
bosom ) and has in summer-time a large bouquet of 

20 flowers in his button-hole ; the present, most probably, 
of some enamoured country lass. His waistcoat is com- 
monly of some bright colour, striped, and his small- 
clothes 2 extend far below the knees, to meet a pair of 
jockey-boots which reach about half way up his legs. 

25 All this costume is maintained with much precision ; 
he has a pride in having his clothes of excellent materials ; 
and, notwithstanding the seeming grossness of his ap- 
pearance, there is still discernible that neatness and 
propriety of person, which is almost inherent in an 
1 Occupation. 2 Knee-breeches. 



The Stage-Coach 55 

Englishman. He enjoys great consequence and con- 
sideration along the road ; has frequent conferences 
with the village housewives, who look upon him as a man 
of great trust and dependence ; and he seems to have 
a good understanding with every bright-eyed country 5 
lass. The moment he arrives where the horses are to 
be changed, he throws down the reins with something 
of an air, and abandons the cattle 1 to the care of the 
hostler; his duty being merely to drive from one stage 
to another. When off the box, his hands are thrust into 10 
the pockets of his great-coat, and he rolls about the inn- 
yard with an air of the most absolute lordliness. Here 
he is generally surrounded by an admiring throng of 
hostlers, stable-boys, shoeblacks, and those nameless 
hangers-on, that infest inns and taverns, and run errands, 15 
and do all kind of odd jobs, for the privilege of batten- 
ing 2 on the drippings of the kitchen and the leakage 
of the tap-room. These all look up to him as to an 
oracle ; treasure up his cant phrases ; echo his opinions 
about horses and other topics of jockey lore ; and, above 20 
all, endeavour to imitate his air and carriage. Every 
ragamuffin that has a coat to his back, thrusts his hands 
in the pockets, rolls in his gait, talks slang, and is an 
embryo Coachey. 

Perhaps it might be owing to the pleasing serenity 25 
that reigned in my own mind, that I fancied I saw cheer- 
fulness in every countenance throughout the journey. 
A stage-coach, however, carries animation always with 
it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The 
1 Animals. 2 Feeding. 



56 The Sketch-Book 

horr, sounded at the entrance of a village, produces a 
general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends ; 
some with bundles and bandboxes to secure places, and 
in the hurry of the moment can hardly take leave of the 

5 group that accompanies them. In the mean time, the 
coachman has a world of small commissions to execute. 
Sometimes he delivers a hare or pheasant; sometimes 
jerks a small parcel or newspaper to the door of a public 
house ; and sometimes, with knowing leer and words of 

iosly import, hands to some half- blushing, half-laughing 
housemaid an odd-shaped billet-doux 1 from some rustic 
admirer. As the coach rattles through the village, every 
one runs to the window, and you have glances on every 
side of fresh country faces and blooming giggling girls. 

15 At the corners are assembled juntos 2 of village idlers 
and wise men, who take their stations there for the im- 
portant purpose of seeing company pass ; but the sagest 
knot is generally at the blacksmith's, to whom the pass- 
ing of the coach is an event fruitful of much speculation. 

20 The smith, with the horse's hed in his lap, pauses as the 
vehicle whirls by; the cyclops 3 round the anvil suspend 
their ringing hammers, and suffer the iron to grow cool ; 
and the sooty spectre, in brown paper cap, labouring at 
the bellows, leans on the handle for a moment, and 

25 permits the asthmatic engine 4 to heave a long-drawn 
sigh, while he glares through the murky smoke, and 
sulphureous gleams of the smithy. 

1 Love-letter. 2 Councils. 

3 Misshapen, one-eyed giants, who toiled at the forge of Vulcan. 

4 Piece of mechanism. 



The Stage-Coach * 57 

Perhaps the impending holiday might have given a 
more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed 
to me as if everybody was in good looks and good spirits. 
Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table, were in 
brisk circulation in the villages ; the grocers', butchers', 5 
and fruiterers' shops were thronged with customers. The 
housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their 
dwellings in order ; and the glossy branches of holly, 
with their bright red berries, began to appear at the win- 
dows. The scene brought to mind an old writer's 10 
account of Christmas preparations : " Now capons and 
hens, beside turkey, geese, and ducks, with beef and 
mutton — must all die — for in twelve days x a multitude 
of people will not be fed with a little. Now plums and 
spice, sugar and honey, square 2 it among pies and broth. 15 
Now or never must music be in tune, for the youth must 
dance and sing to get them a heat, while the aged sit by 
the fire. The country maid leaves half her market, 3 and 
must be sent again, if she forgets a pack of cards on 
Christmas eve. Great is the contention of holly and ivy, 20 
whether master or dame wears the breeches. Dice and 
cards benefit the butler ; and if the cook do not lack wit, 
he will sweetly lick his fingers." 

I was roused from this fit of luxurious meditation by a 
shout from my little travelling companions. They had 25 
been looking out of the coach windows for the last few 
miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they ap- 
proached home, and now there was a general burst of 

1 The twelve days of holiday from Christmas to Epiphany. 

2 Take their proper place. 3 Marketing. 



58 The Sketch-Book 

joy. " There's John ! and there's old Carlo ! and there's 
Bantam ! " cried the happy little rogues, clapping their 
hands. 

At the end of a lane there was an old sober-looking 
5 servant in livery, waiting for them ; he was accompanied 
by a superannuated pointer, and by the redoubtable 
Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane 
and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road- 
side, little dreaming of the bustling times that awaited 

10 him. 

I was pleased to see the fondness with which the little 
fellows leaped about the steady old footman, and hugged 
the pointer, who wriggled his whole body for joy. But 
Bantam was the great object of interest ; all wanted to 

15 mount at once, and it was with some difficulty that John 
arranged that they should ride by turns, and the eldest 
should ride first. 

Off they set at last ; one on the pony, with the dog 
bounding and barking before him, and the others holding 

20 John's hands; both talking at once, and overpowering 
him with questions about home, and with school anec- 
dotes. I looked after them with a feeling in which I do 
not know whether pleasure or melancholy predominated ; 
for I was reminded of those days when, like them, I had 

25 neither known care nor sorrow, and a holiday was the 
summit of earthly felicity. We stopped a few moments 
afterwards to water the horses, and on resuming our 
route, a turn of the road brought us in sight of a neat 
country-seat. I could just distinguish the forms of a 

30 lady and two young girls in the portico, and I saw my 



The Stage-Coach 59 

little comrades, with Bantam, Carlo, and old John, troop- 
ing along the carriage road. I leaned out of the coach 
window, in hopes of witnessing the happy meeting, but 
a grove of trees shut it from my sight. 

In the evening we reached a village where I had de-5 
termined to pass the night. As we drove into the great 
gateway of the inn, I saw on one side the light of a 
rousing kitchen fire beaming through a window. I 
entered, and admired, for the hundredth time, that picture 
of convenience, neatness, and broad honest enjoyment, 10 
the kitchen of an English inn. It was of spacious dimen- 
sions, hung round with copper and tin vessels highly pol- 
ished, and decorated here and there with a Christmas 
green. Hams, tongues, and flitches 1 of bacon, were 
suspended from the ceiling ; a smoke-jack 2 made its 15 
ceaseless clanking beside the fireplace, and a clock ticked 
in one corner. A well-scoured deal table extended along 
one side of the kitchen, with a cold round of beef, and 
other hearty viands upon it, over which two foaming 
tankards of ale seemed mounting guard. Travellers of 20 
inferior order were preparing to attack this stout repast, 
while others sat smoking and gossiping over their ale on 
two high-backed oaken settles beside the fire. Trim 
housemaids were hurrying backwards and forwards under 
the directions of a fresh, bustling landlady; but still 25 
seizing an occasional moment to exchange a flippant 
word, and have a rallying laugh, with the group round 

1 Sides. 

2 A turnspit fitted with a turbine wheel and made to revolve by 
the ascending smuke. 



60 The Sketch-Book 

the fire. The scene completely realized Poor Robin's 
humble idea of the comforts of mid-winter. 

Now trees their leafy hats do bare 
To reverence Winter's silver hair; 
5 A handsome hostess, merry host, 

A pot of ale now and a toast, 
Tobacco and a good coal-fire, 
Are things this season doth require.* 

I had not been long at the inn when a postchaise drove 

10 up to the door. A young gentleman stepped out and by 
the light of the lamps I caught a glimpse of a counte- 
nance which I thought I knew. I moved forward to 
get a nearer view, when his eye caught mine. I was not 
mistaken ; it was Frank Bracebridge, a sprightly, good- 

15 humoured young fellow, with whom I had once travelled 
on the continent. Our meeting was extremely cordial, 
for the countenance of an old fellow-traveller always 
brings up the recollection of a thousand pleasant scenes, 
odd adventures, and excellent jokes. To discuss all these 

20 in a transient interview at an inn was impossible ; and 
finding that I was not pressed for time, and was merely 
making a tour of observation, he insisted that I should 
give him a day or two at his father's country-seat, to 
which he was going to pass the holidays, and which lay 

25 at a few miles' distance. " It is better than eating a 
solitary Christmas dinner at an inn," said he ; " and I 

* Poor Robin's Almanac, 1684. 1 



1 Irving's own footnotes are distinguished by asterisks, the edi- 
tor's by numbers. 



The Stage-Coach 61 

can assure you of a hearty welcome in something of the 
old-fashioned style." His reasoning was cogent, and I 
must confess the preparation I had seen for universal 
festivity and social enjoyment had made me feel a little 
impatient of my loneliness. I closed, therefore, at once, 5 
with his invitation ; the chaise drove up to the door, 
and in a few moments I was on my way to the family 
mansion of the Bracebridges. 



CHRISTMAS EVE 

Saint Francis and Saint Benedight 
Blesse this house from wicked wight; 
From the night-mare and the goblin, 
That is hight good fellow Robin; 
5 Keep it from all evil spirits, 

Fairies, weezels, rats, and ferrets. 
From curfew time 
To the next prime. 

— Cartwright. 

io It was a brilliant moonlight night, but extremely 
cold ; our chaise whirled rapidly over the frozen ground ; 
the postboy smacked his whip incessantly, and a part 
of the time his horses were on a gallop. " He knows 
where he is going," said my companion, laughing, 

15 " and is eager to arrive in time for some of the merriment 
and good cheer of the servants' hall. 1 My father, you 
must know, is a bigoted devotee of the old school, and 
prides himself upon keeping up something of old English 
hospitality. He is a tolerable specimen of what you 

20 will rarely meet with nowadays in its purity, the old 
English country gentleman ; for our men of fortune spend 
so much of their time in town, and fashion is carried so 
much into the country, that the strong rich peculiarities 
of ancient rural life are almost polished away. My father, 

1 The servants' dining-room. 
62 



Christmas Eve 63 

however, from early years, took honest Peacham * for his 
text-book, instead of Chesterfield ; he determined in his 
own mind that there was no condition more truly honour- 
able and enviable than that of a country gentleman on his 
paternal lands, and therefore passes the whole of his time 5 
on his estate. He is a strenuous advocate for the revival 
of the old rural games and holiday observances, and is 
deeply read in the writers, ancient and modern, who have 
treated on the subject. Indeed his favourite range of 
reading is among the authors who flourished at least two ic 
centuries since : who, he insists, wrote and thought more 
like true Englishmen than any of their successors. He 
even regrets sometimes that he had not been born a few 
centuries earlier, when England was itself, and had its 
peculiar manners and customs. As he lives at some dis- 15 
tance from the main road, in rather a lonely part of the 
country, without any rival gentry near him, he has that 
most enviable of all blessings to an Englishman, an op- 
portunity of indulging the bent of his own humour with- 
out molestation. Being representative of the oldest 20 
family in the neighbourhood, and a great part of the 
peasantry being his tenants, he is much looked up to, 
and, in general, is known simply by the appellation of 
' The Squire ' ; a title which has been accorded to the 
head of the family since time immemorial. I think it 25 
best to give you these hints about my worthy old father, 
to prepare you for any eccentricities that might other- 
wise appear absurd." 

We had passed for some time along the wall of a park, 
* Peacham's Complete Gentleman, 1622. 



64 The Sketch-Book 

and at length the chaise stopped at the gate. It was in a 
heavy magnificent old style, of iron bars, fancifully wrought 
at top into flourishes and flowers. The huge square 
columns that supported the gate were surmounted by the 
5 family crest. Close adjoining was the porter's lodge 
sheltered under dark fir trees, and almost buried in shrub- 
bery. 

The postboy rang a large porter's bell, which re- 
sounded through the still frosty air, and was answered 

10 by the distant barking of dogs, with which the mansion- 
house seemed garrisoned. An old woman immediately 
appeared at the gate. As the moonlight fell strongly 
upon her, I had a full view of a little primitive dame, 
dressed very much in the antique taste, with a neat ker- 

15 chief and stomacher, 1 and her silver hair peeping from 
under a cap of snowy whiteness. She came courtesying 
forth, with many expressions of simple joy at seeing her 
young master. Her husband, it seemed, was up at the 
house keeping Christmas eve in the servants' hall ; they 

20 could not do without him, as he was the best hand at a 
song and story in the household. 

My friend proposed that we should alight and walk 
through the park to the hall, which was at no great dis- 
tance, while the chaise should follow on. Our road wound 

25 through a noble avenue of trees, among the naked 
branches of which the moon glittered, as she rolled 
through the deep vault of a cloudless sky. The lawn 
beyond was sheeted with a slight covering of snow, which 
here and there sparkled as the moonbeams caught a 
1 Breast covering. 



Christmas Eve 65 

frosty crystal; and at a distance might be seen a thin 
transparent vapour, stealing up from the low grounds, 
and threatening gradually to shroud the landscape. 

My companion looked around him with transport : 
" How often/' said he, " have I scampered up this ave- 5 
nue, on returning home on school vacations ! How 
often have I played under these trees when a boy ! I 
feel a degree of filial reverence for them, as we look up 
to those who have cherished us in childhood. My father 
was always scrupulous in exacting our holidays, and hav- 10 
ing us around him on family festivals. He used to direct 
and superintend our games with the strictness that some 
parents do the studies of their children. He was very 
particular that we should play the old English games ac- 
cording to their original form ; and consulted old books 15 
for precedent and authority for every ' merrie disport'; 
yet I assure you there never was pedantry so delightful. 
It was the policy of the good old gentleman to make his 
children feel that home was the happiest place in the 
world ; and I value this delicious home-feeling as one of 20 
the choicest gifts a parent could bestow." 

We were interrupted by the clamour of a troop of dogs 
of all sorts and sizes, " mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, 
and curs of low degree," that, disturbed by the ring of 
the porter's bell and the rattling of the chaise, came 25 
bounding, open-mouthed, across the lawn. 

" The little dogs and all, 

Tray, Blanch, and Sweetheart, see, they bark at me ! " 

cried Bracebridge, laughing. At the sound of his voice, 
the bark was changed into a yelp of delight, and in a 30 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 5 



66 The Sketch-Book 

moment he was surrounded and almost overpowered by 
the caresses of the faithful animals. 

We had now come in full view of the old family man- 
sion, partly thrown in deep shadow, and partly lit up by the 
5 cool moonshine. It was an irregular building, of some mag- 
nitude, and seemed to be of the architecture of different pe- 
riods. One wing was evidently very ancient, with heavy 
stone-shafted bow-windows jutting out and overrun with ivy, 
from among the foliage of which the small diamond-shaped 

10 panes of glass glittered with the moonbeams. The rest of 
the house was in the French taste of Charles the Second's 
time, having been repaired and altered, as my friend told me, 
by one of his ancestors, who returned with that monarch 
at the Restoration. The grounds about the house were 

15 laid out in the old formal manner of artificial flower-beds, 
clipped shrubberies, raised terraces, and heavy stone bal- 
ustrades, ornamented with urns, a leaden statue or two, 
and a jet of water. The old gentleman, I was told, was 
extremely careful to preserve this obsolete finery in all 

20 its original state. He admired this fashion in gardening ; 
it had an air of magnificence, was courtly and noble, and 
befitting good old family style. The boasted imitation of 
nature in modern gardening had sprung up with modern 
republican notions, but did not suit a monarchical gov- 

25ernment; it smacked of the levelling system. I could 
not help smiling at this introduction of politics into 
gardening, though I expressed some apprehension that I 
should find the old gentleman rather intolerant in his 
creed. Frank assured me, however, that it was almost 

30 the only instance in which he had ever heard his father 



Christmas Eve 67 

meddle with politics ; and he believed that he had got 
this notion from a member of parliament who once passed 
a few weeks with him. The squire was glad of any argu- 
ment to defend his clipped yew trees and formal terraces, 
which had been occasionally attacked by modern land- 5 
scape gardeners. 

As we approached the house we heard the sound of 
music, and now and then a burst of laughter, from one 
end of the building. This, Bracebridge said, must pro- 
ceed from the servants 7 hall, where a great deal of revelry 10 
was permitted, and even encouraged by the squire, 
throughout the twelve days 1 of Christmas, provided 
everything was done conformably to ancient usage. 
Here were kept up the old games of hoodman blind, 
shoe the wild mare, hot cockles, steal the white loaf, bob 15 
apple, and snap-dragon; the Yule clog 2 and Christmas 
candle 3 were regularly burnt, and the mistletoe, with its 
white berries, hung up, to the imminent peril of all the 
pretty house-maids.* 

So intent were the servants upon their sports that we 20 
had to ring repeatedly before we could make ourselves 
heard. On our arrival being announced, the Squire came 
out to receive us, accompanied by his two other sons : 
one a young officer in the army, home on leave of ab- 

* The mistletoe is still hung up in farm-houses and kitchens at 25 
Christmas; and the young men have the privilege of kissing the 
girls under it, plucking each time a berry from the bush. When 
the berries are all plucked, the privilege ceases. 



1 From Christmas to Epiphany, 6 January. 

2 See footnote, p. 69. 3 See p. 71, 1. 1-2. 



68 The Sketch-Book 

sence ; the other an Oxonian, 1 just from the university. 
The Squire was a fine healthy-looking old gentleman, 
with silver hair curling lightly round an open florid coun- 
tenance ; in which the physiognomist, 2 with the advantage, 
5 like myself, of a previous hint or two, might discover a 
singular mixture of whim and benevolence. 

The family meeting was warm and affectionate : as the 
evening was far advanced, the Squire would not permit 
us to change our travelling dresses, but ushered us at once 

ioto the company, which was assembled in a large old- 
fashioned hall. It was composed of different branches 
of a numerous family connexion, where there were the 
usual proportion of old uncles and aunts, comfortable 
married dames, superannuated spinsters, blooming country 

15 cousins, half-fledged striplings, and bright-eyed boarding- 
school hoydens. 3 They were variously occupied : some 
at a round game 4 of cards ; others conversing around the 
fireplace ; at one end of the hall was a group of the young 
folks, some nearly grown up, others of a more tender and 

20 budding age, fully engrossed by a merry game ; and a pro- 
fusion of wooden horses, penny trumpets, and tattered 
dolls, about the floor, showed traces of a troop of little 
fairy beings, who, having frolicked through a happy day, 
had been carried off to slumber through a peaceful 

25 night. 

While the mutual greetings were going on between 
young Bracebridge and his relatives, I had time to scan 
the apartment. I have called it a hall, for so it had cer- 

1 Student at Oxford. 2 One who studies faces. 

8 Romping girls. 4 One in which each person plays for himself. 



Christmas Eve 69 

tainly been in old times, and the Squire had evidently 
endeavoured to restore it to something of its primitive 
state. Over the heavy projecting fireplace was suspended 
a picture of a warrior in armour, standing by a white 
horse, and on the opposite wall hung a helmet, buckler, 1 5 
and lance. At one end an enormous pair of antlers were 
inserted in the wall, the branches serving as hooks on 
which to suspend hats, whips, and spurs; and in the 
corners of the apartment were fowling-pieces, fishing-rods, 
and other sporting implements. The furniture was of 10 
the cumbrous workmanship of former days, though some 
articles of modern convenience had been added, and the 
oaken floor had been carpeted ; so that the whole pre- 
sented an odd mixture of parlour and hall. 

The grate had been removed from the wide overwhelm- 15 
ing fireplace, to make way for a fire of wood, in the 
midst of which was an enormous log glowing and blazing, 
and sending forth a vast volume of light and heat : this 
I understood was the Yule clog, which the squire was 
particular in having brought in and illumined on a Christ- 20 
mas eve, according to ancient custom.* 

It was really delightful to see the old squire seated in 
his hereditary elbow-chair, by the hospitable fireside of his 

* The Yule clog is a great log of wood, sometimes the root of 
a tree, brought into the house with great ceremony, on Christmas 25 
eve, laid in the fireplace, and lighted with the brand of last year's 
clog. While it lasted, there was great drinking, singing, and telling 
of tales. Sometimes it was accompanied by Christmas candles; 
but in the cottages the only light was from the ruddy blaze of the 

1 Shield. 



70 The Sketch-Book 

ancestors, and looking around him like the sun of a 
system, beaming warmth and gladness to every heart. 
Even the very dog that lay stretched at his feet, as he 
lazily shifted his position and yawned, would look fondly 

5 up in his master's face, wag his tail against the floor, and 
stretch himself again to sleep, confident of kindness and 
protection. There is an emanation from the heart in 
genuine hospitality which cannot be described, but is im- 
mediately felt, and puts the stranger at once at his ease. 

10 1 had not been seated many minutes by the comfortable 
hearth of the worthy old cavalier, before I found myself 
as much at home as if I had been one of the family. 

Supper was announced shortly after our arrival. It 
was served up in a spacious oaken chamber, the panels 

15 of which shone with wax, and around which were several 
family portraits decorated with holly and ivy. Besides 

great wood fire. The Yule clog was to burn all night; if it went 
out, it was considered a sign of ill luck. 
Herrick mentions it in one of his songs: — 

20 " Come, bring with a noise, 

My merrie, merrie boyes, 
The Christmas log to the firing; 

While my good dame, she 

Bids ye all be free, 
25 And drink to your hearts' desiring.' , 

The Yule clog is still burnt in many farm-houses and kitchens in 
England, particularly in the north, and there are several supersti- 
tions connected with it among the peasantry. If a squinting person 
come to the house while it is burning, or a person barefooted, it is 
30 considered an ill omen. The brand remaining from the Yule clog 
is carefully put away to light the next year's Christmas fire. 



Christmas Eve 71 

the accustomed lights, two great wax tapers, called 
Christmas candles, wreathed with greens, were placed on 
a highly-polished beaufet 1 among the family plate. The 
table was abundantly spread with substantial fare ; but the 
Squire made his supper of frumenty, a dish made of 5 
wheat-cakes boiled in milk, with rich spices, being a 
standing dish in old times for Christmas eve. 

I was happy to find my old friend, minced-pie, in the 
retinue of the feast ; and finding him to be perfectly 
orthodox, and that I need not be ashamed of my predilec- 10 
tion, I greeted him with all the warmth wherewith we 
usually greet an old and very genteel acquaintance. 

The mirth of the company was greatly promoted by the 
humours of an eccentric personage whom Mr. Bracebridge 
always addressed with the quaint appellation of Master 15 
Simon. He was a tight brisk little man, with the air of 
an arrant old bachelor. His nose was shaped like the bill 
of a parrot ; his face slightly pitted with the small-pox, 
with a dry perpetual bloom on it, like a frostbitten leaf in 
autumn. He had an eye of great quickness and vivacity, 20 
with a drollery and lurking waggery of expression that 
was irresistible. He was evidently the wit of the family, 
dealing very much in sly jokes and innuendoes with the 
ladies, and making infinite merriment by harping upon 
old themes ; which, unfortunately, my ignorance of the 25 
family chronicles did not permit me to enjoy. It seemed 
to be his great delight during supper to keep a young girl 
next him in a continual agony of stifled laughter, in spite 
of her awe of the reproving looks of her mother, who sat 
1 Buffet, sideboard. 



72 The Sketch-Book 

opposite. Indeed, he was the idol of the younger part of 
the company, who laughed at everything he said or did, 
and at every turn of his countenance ; I could not wonder 
at it ; for he must have been a miracle of accomplish- 
5 ments in their eyes. He could imitate Punch and Judy ; 
make an old woman of his hand, with the assistance of a 
burnt cork and pocket-handkerchief; and cut an orange 
into such a ludicrous caricature, that the young folks were 
ready to die with laughing. 

10 I was let briefly into his history by Frank Bracebridge. 
He was an old bachelor, of a small independent income, 
which, by careful management, was sufficient for all his 
wants. He revolved through the family system like a 
vagrant comet in its orbit ; sometimes visiting one branch, 

15 and sometimes another quite remote ; as is often the case 
with gentlemen of extensive connexions and small fortunes 
in England. He had a chirping buoyant disposition, 
always enjoying the present moment; and his frequent 
change of scene and company prevented his acquiring 

20 those rusty unaccommodating habits, with which old 
bachelors are so uncharitably charged. He was a com- 
plete family chronicle, being versed in the genealogy, 
history, and intermarriages of the whole house of Brace- 
bridge, which made him a great favourite with the old 

25 folks ; he was a beau of all the elder ladies and superan- 
nuated spinsters, among whom he was habitually con- 
sidered rather a young fellow, and he was master of the 
revels among the children ; so that there was not a more 
popular being in the sphere in which he moved than Mr. 

30 Simon Bracebridge. Of late years, he had resided almost 



Christmas Eve 73 

entirely with the Squire, to whom he had become a facto- 
tum, 1 and whom he particularly delighted by jumping 2 
with his humour in respect to old times, and by having a 
scrap of an old song to suit every occasion. We had pres- 
ently a specimen of his last-mentioned talent ; for no 5 
sooner was supper removed, and spiced wines and other 
beverages peculiar to the season introduced, than Master 
Simon was called on for a good old Christmas song. 
He bethought himself for a moment, and then, with a 
sparkle of the eye, and a voice that was by no means bad, 10 
excepting that it ran occasionally into a falsetto, like the 
notes of a split reed, he quavered forth a quaint old ditty. 

" Now Christmas is come, 

Let us beat up the drum, 
And call all our neighbours together, 15 

And when they appear, 

Let us make them such cheer, 
As will keep out the wind and the weather," etc. 

The supper had disposed every one to gayety and an 
old harper was summoned from the servants' hall, where 20 
he had been strumming all the evening, and to all 
appearance comforting himself with some of the Squire's 
home-brewed. 3 . He was a kind of hanger-on, I was told, 
of the establishment, and, though ostensibly a resident 
of the village, was oftener to be found in the Squire's 25 
kitchen than his own home, the old gentleman being fond 
of the sound of " harp in hall." 

The dance, like most dances after supper, was a merry 

1 One who does everything. 

2 Agreeing. 3 Ale. 



74 The Sketch-Book 

one ; some of the older folks joined in it, and the Squire 
himself figured down several couple 1 with a partner, 
with whom he affirmed he had danced at every Christmas 
for nearly half a century. Master Simon, who seemed 

5 to be a kind of connecting link between the old times 
and the new, and to be withal a little antiquated in the 
taste of his accomplishments, evidently piqued himself 
on his dancing, and was endeavouring to gain credit by 
the heel and toe, 2 rigadoon, 3 and other graces of the 

io ancient school ; but he had unluckily assorted himself with 
a little romping girl from boarding-school, who, by her 
wild vivacity, kept him continually on the stretch, and 
defeated all his sober attempts at elegance : — such are 
the ill-assorted matches to which antique gentlemen are 

15 unfortunately prone ! 

The young Oxonian, on the contrary, had led out one 
of his maiden aunts, on whom the rogue played a thou- 
sand little knaveries with impunity : he was full of practical 
jokes, and his delight was to tease his aunts and cousins ; 

20 yet, like all madcap youngsters, he was a universal fa- 
vourite among the women. The most interesting couple in 
the dance was the young officer and a ward of the Squire's, 
a beautiful blushing girl of seventeen. From several shy 
glances which I had noticed in the course of the evening, 

25 I suspected there was a little kindness growing up between 
them; and, indeed, the young soldier was just the hero 

1 A figure is a component part of a square or a country dance. 
To figure here means to take part in the dance. The Squire sev- 
eral times engaged in dancing. 

2 An old polka step. 3 A lively French dance. 



Christmas Eve 75 

to captivate a romantic girl. He was tall, slender, and 
handsome, and, like most young British officers of late 
years, had picked up various small accomplishments on 
the continent; — he could talk French and Italian — 
draw landscapes — sing very tolerably — ■ dance divinely ; 5 
but, above all, he had been wounded at Waterloo : — 
what girl of seventeen, well read in poetry and romance, 
could resist such a mirror of chivalry and perfection ! 

The moment the dance was over, he caught up a 
guitar and, lolling against the old marble fireplace, in an 10 
attitude which I am half inclined to suspect was studied, 
began the little French air of the Troubadour. The 
Squire, however, exclaimed against having anything on 
Christmas eve but good old English ; upon which the 
young minstrel, casting up his eye for a moment, as if in 15 
an effort of memory, struck into another strain, and, with 
a charming air of gallantry, gave Herrick's Night-Piece to 
Julia, 

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, 

The shooting stars attend thee, 20 

And the elves also, 

Whose little eyes glow 
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. 

No Will-o'-the-Wisp mislight thee; 

Nor snake nor slow-worm 1 bite thee; 25 

But on, on thy way, 

Not making a stay, 
Since ghost there is none to affright thee. 

1 A poisonous lizard-like reptile; but sometimes an adder is 
meant. 



y6 The Sketch-Book 



Then let not the dark thee cumber; 
What though the moon does slumber, 
The stars of the night 
Will lend thee their light, 
5 Like tapers clear without numbers. 

Then, Julia, let me woo thee, 
Thus, thus to come unto me, 
And when I shall meet 
Thy silvery feet, 
10 My soul I'll pour into thee. 

The song might or might not have been intended in 
compliment to the fair Julia, for so I found his partner 
was called ; she, however, was certainly unconscious of any 
such application, for she never looked at the singer, but 

15 kept her eyes cast upon the floor. Her face was suffused, 
it is true, with a beautiful blush, and there was a gentle 
heaving of the bosom, but all that was doubtless caused 
by the exercise of the dance ; indeed, so great was her 
indifference, that she amused herself with plucking to 

20 pieces a choice bouquet of hot-house flowers, and by the 
time the song was concluded the nosegay lay in ruins on 
the floor. 

The party now broke up for the night with the kind- 
hearted old custom of shaking hands. As I passed through 

25 the hall, on my way to my chamber, the dying embers of 
the Yule clog still sent forth a dusky glow, and had it not 
been the season when " no spirit dares stir abroad," I should 
have been half tempted to steal from my room at midnight, 
and peep whether the fairies might not be at their revels 

30 about the hearth. 

My chamber was in the old part of the mansion, the 



Christmas Eve 77 

ponderous furniture of which might have been fabricated 
in the days of the giants. The room was panelled with 
cornices of heavy carved work, in which flowers and gro- 
tesque faces were strangely intermingled ; and a row of 
black-looking portraits stared mournfully at me from the 5 
walls. The bed was of rich, though faded damask, with a 
lofty tester, 1 and stood in a niche opposite a bow-window. 
I had scarcely got into bed when a strain of music seemed 
to break forth in the air just below the window. I listened, 
and found it proceeded from a band, which I concluded 10 
to be the waits 2 from some neighbouring village. They 
went round the house, playing under the windows. I drew 
aside the curtains to hear them more distinctly. The moon- 
beams fell through the upper part of the casement, par- 
tially lighting up the antiquated apartment. The sounds, 15 
as they receded, became more soft and aerial, and seemed 
to accord with the quiet and moonlight. I listened and 
listened, — they became more and more tender and remote, 
and, as they gradually died away, my head sunk upon the 
pillow, and I fell asleep. 20 

1 Canopy. 2 See p. 49, footnote 2. 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

Dark and dull night, flie hence away, 
And give the honour to this day 
That sees December turn'd to May. 

Why does the chilling winter's morne 
5 Smile like a field beset with corn 1 ? 

Or smell like to a meade new-shorne, 
Thus on the sudden? — Come and see 
The cause why things thus fragrant be. 

— Herrick. 

10 When I woke the next morning, it seemed as if all the 
events of the preceding evening had been a dream, and 
nothing but the identity of the ancient chamber convinced 
me of their reality. While I lay musing on my pillow, I 
heard the sound of little feet pattering outside of the door, 

15 and a whispering consultation. Presently a choir of small 
voices chanted forth an old Christmas carol, the burden 
of which was — 

" Rejoice, our Saviour he was born 
On Christmas day in the morning." 

20 I rose softly, slipped on my clothes, opened the door 
suddenly, and beheld one of the most beautiful little fairy 
groups that a painter could imagine. It consisted of a 
boy and two girls, the eldest not more than six, and lovely 

1 Grain. 

78 



Christmas Day 79 

as seraphs. They were going the rounds of the house, and 
singing at every chamber-door ; but my sudden appearance 
frightened them into mute bashfulness. They remained 
for a moment playing on their lips with their fingers, and 
now and then stealing a shy glance from under their eye- 5 
brows, until, as if by one impulse, they scampered away, 
and as they turned an angle of the gallery, I heard them 
laughing in triumph at their escape. 

Everything conspired to produce kind and happy 
feelings in this stronghold of old-fashioned hospitality. 10 
The window of my chamber looked out upon what in 
summer would have been a beautiful landscape. There 
was a sloping lawn, a fine stream winding at the foot of 
it, and a tract of park beyond, with noble clumps of 
trees, and herds of deer. At a distance was a neat ham- 15 
let, with the smoke from the cottage chimneys hanging 
over it ; and a church with its dark spire in strong relief 
against the clear, cold sky. The house was surrounded 
with evergreens, according to the English custom, which 
would have given almost an appearance of summer ; but 20 
the morning was extremely frosty ; the light vapour of 
the preceding evening had been precipitated by the cold, 
and covered all the trees and every blade of grass with 
its fine crystallizations. The rays of a bright morning 
sun had a dazzling effect among the glittering foliage. 25 
A robin, perched upon the top of a mountain ash that 
hung its clusters of red berries just before my window, 
was basking himself in the sunshine, and piping a few 
querulous notes ; and a peacock was displaying all the 
glories of his train, and strutting with the pride and 3° 



80 The Sketch-Book 

gravity of a Spanish grandee, 1 on the terrace walk 
below. 

I had scarcely dressed myself, when a servant appeared 
to invite me to family prayers. He showed me the way 
5 to a small chapel in the old wing of the house, where I 
found the principal part of the family already assembled 
in a kind of gallery, furnished with cushions, hassocks, 2 
and large prayer-books ; the servants were seated on 
benches below. The old gentleman read prayers from 

10 a desk in front of the gallery, and Master Simon acted as 
clerk, and made the responses ; and I must do him the 
justice to say that he acquitted himself with great gravity 
and decorum. 

The service was followed by a Christmas carol, which 

15 Mr. Bracebridge himself had constructed from a poem 
of his favourite author, Herrick ; and it had been adapted 
to an old church melody by Master Simon. As there 
were several good voices among the household, the effect 
was extremely pleasing ; but I was particularly gratified 

20 by the exaltation of heart, and sudden sally of grateful 
feeling, with which the worthy Squire delivered one 
stanza ; his eye glistening, and his voice rambling out 
of all the bounds of time and tune : — 

" 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth 
25 With guiltless mirth, 

And givest me Wassaile bowles 8 to drink 
Spiced to the brink; 

1 Nobleman. 2 Footstools. 

3 See footnote, p. 104. 



Christmas Day 81 

Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand 

That soiles 1 my land; 
And giv'st me for my bushell sowne, 

Twice ten for one." 

I afterwards understood that early morning services 
was read on every Sunday and saint's day throughout the 
year, either by Mr. Bracebridge or by some member of 
the family. It was once almost universally the case at 
the seats of the nobility and gentry of England, and it 
is much to be regretted that the custom is falling into 10 
neglect ; for the dullest observer must be sensible of the 
order and serenity prevalent in those households, where 
the occasional exercise of a beautiful form of worship in 
the morning gives, as it were, the key-note to every 
temper for the day, and attunes every spirit to harmony. 15 

Our breakfast consisted of what the Squire denomi- 
nated true old English fare. He indulged in some 
bitter lamentations over modern breakfasts of tea and 
toast, which he censured as among the causes of modern 
effeminacy and weak nerves, and the decline of old 20 
English heartiness ; and though he admitted them to 
his table to suit the palates of his guests, yet there was 
a brave display of cold meats, wine, and ale, on the 
sideboard. 

After breakfast I walked about the grounds with Frank 25 
Bracebridge and Master Simon, or Mr. Simon, as he 
was called by everybody but the Squire. We were 
escorted by a number of gentlemanlike dogs, that seemed 
loungers about the establishment, from the frisking spaniel 

1 Makes fertile. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK 6 



82 The Sketch-Book 

to the steady old stag-hound, — the last of which was 
of a race that had been in the family time out of mind ; 
they were all obedient to a dog-whistle which hung to 
Master Simon's button-hole, and in the midst of their 
5 gambols would glance an eye occasionally upon a small 
switch he carried in his hand. 

The old mansion had a still more venerable look in the 
yellow sunshine than by pale moonlight ; and I could not 
but feel the force of the Squire's idea, that the formal 

10 terraces, heavily moulded balustrades, and clipped yew 
trees carried with them an air of proud aristocracy. 
There appeared to be an unusual number of peacocks 
about the place, and I was making some remarks upon 
what I termed^ a flock of them, that were basking under 

15 a sunny wall, when I was gently corrected in my phrase- 
ology by Master Simon, who told me that, according to 
the most ancient and approved treatise on hunting, I 
must say a muster of peacocks. " In the same way," 
added he, with a slight air of pedantry, " we say a flight 

20 of doves or swallows, a bevy of quails, a herd of deer, 
of wrens, or cranes, a skulk of foxes, or a building of 
rooks." He went on to inform me that, according to 
Sir Anthony Fitzherbert, we ought to ascribe to this bird 
"both understanding and glory; for, being praised, he 

25 will presently set up his tail, chiefly against the sun, to 
the intent you may the better behold the beauty thereof. 
But at the fall of the leaf, 1 when his tail falleth, he will 
mourn and hide himself in corners, till his tail come again 
as it was." 

1 Autumn. 



Christmas Day 83 

I could not help smiling at this display of small erudi- 
tion on so whimsical a subject; but I found that the 
peacocks were birds of some consequence at the hall ; 
for Frank Bracebridge informed me that they were great 
favourites with his father, who was extremely careful to 5 
keep up the breed; partly because they belonged to 
chivalry, and were in great request at the stately ban- 
quets of the olden time, and partly because they had a 
pomp and magnificence about them, highly becoming' an 
old family mansion. Nothing, he was accustomed to 10 
say, had an air of greater state and dignity than a 
peacock perched upon an antique stone balustrade. 

Master Simon had now to hurry off, having an appoint- 
ment at the parish church with the village choristers, who 
were to perform some music of his selection. There was 15 
something extremely agreeable in the cheerful flow of ani- 
mal spirits of the little man ; and I confess I had been some- 
what surprised at his apt quotations from authors who 
certainly were not in the range of every-day reading. I 
mentioned this last circumstance to Frank Bracebridge, 20 
who told me with a smile that Master Simon's whole 
stock of erudition was confined to some half a dozen old 
authors, which the Squire had put into his hands, and 
which he read over and over, whenever he had a studious 
fit ; as he sometimes had on a rainy day, or a long win- 25 
ter evening. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert's Book of Hus- 
bandry ; Markham's Country Contentments ; the Tretyse 
of Hunting, by Sir Thomas Cockayne, Knight; Izaak 
Walton's Angler, and two or three more such ancient 
worthies of the pen, were his standard authorities ; and, 30 



84 The Sketch-Book 

like all men who know but a few books, he looked up to 
them with a kind of idolatry, and quoted them on all 
occasions. As to his songs, they were chiefly picked out 
of old books in the Squire's library, and adapted to tunes 
5 that were popular among the choice spirits of the last 
century. His practical application of scraps of literature, 
however, had caused him to be looked upon as a prodigy 
of book knowledge by all the grooms, huntsmen, 1 and 
small sportsmen of the neighbourhood. 
10 While we were talking we heard the distant tolling 
of the village bell, and I was told that the Squire was a 
little particular in having his household at church on a 
Christmas morning ; considering it a day of pouring out 
of thanks and rejoicing ; for, as old Tusser observed, 

15 " At Christmas be merry, and thankful withal, 

And feast thy poor neighbours, the great with the small." 

" If you are disposed to go to church/' said Frank 
Bracebridge, "I can promise you a specimen of my 
cousin Simon's musical achievements. As the church is 

20 destitute of an organ, he has formed a band from the 
village amateurs, 2 and established a musical club for their 
improvement ; he has also sorted a choir, as he sorted 
my father's pack of hounds, according to the directions 
of Jervaise Markham, in his Country Contentments : for 

25 the bass, he sought out all the 'deep, solemn mouths,' 3 and 
for the tenor, the ' loud-ringing mouths,' among the coun- 
try bumpkins ; and for i sweet mouths,' he has culled with 

1 Servants employed in the hunts. 

2 Persons who do a thing for love of it. 3 Voices. 



Christmas Day 85 

curious taste among the prettiest lasses in the neighbour- 
hood ; though these last, he affirms, are the most difficult 
to keep in tune ; your pretty female singer being ex- 
ceedingly wayward and capricious, and very liable to 
accident." 5 

As the morning, though frosty, was remarkably fine and 
clear, the most of the family walked to the church, which 
was a very old building of grey stone, and stood near a 
village, about half a mile from the park gate. Adjoining 
it was a low snug parsonage, which seemed coeval with 10 
the church. The front of it was perfectly matted with a 
yew tree, that had been trained against its walls, through 
the dense foliage of which, apertures had been formed to 
admit light into the small antique lattices. As we passed 
this sheltered nest, the parson issued forth and pre- *5 
ceded us. 

I had expected to see a sleek, well-conditioned pastor, 
such as is often found in a snug living J in the vicinity of 
a rich patron's 2 table ; but I was disappointed. The 
parson was a little, meagre, black-looking man, with a 20 
grizzled wig that was too wide, and stood off from each 
ear ; so that his head seemed to have shrunk away within 
it, like a dried filbert in its shell. He wore a rusty coat, 
with great skirts, and pockets that would have held the 
church Bible and prayer-book : and his small legs seemed 25 
still smaller, from being planted in large shoes, decorated 
with enormous buckles. 

1 The vicar's position. 

2 The person on whose nomination the appointment to the living 
was made. 



86 The Sketch-Book 

I was informed by Frank Bracebridge, that the parson 
had been a chum of his father's at Oxford, and had re- 
ceived this living shortly after the latter had come to his 
estate. He was a complete black-letter 1 hunter, and 

5 would scarcely read a work printed in the Roman char- 
acter. The editions of Caxton and Wynkyn de Worde 
were his delight; and he was indefatigable in his re- 
searches after such old English writers as have fallen 
into oblivion from their worthlessness. In deference, 

10 perhaps, to the notions of Mr. Bracebridge, he had made 
diligent investigations into the festive rites and holiday 
customs of former times ; and had been as zealous in the 
inquiry as if he had been a boon companion ; 2 but it was 
merely with that plodding spirit with which men of adust 3 

15 temperament follow up any track of study, merely because 
it is denominated learning ; indifferent to its intrinsic 
nature, whether it be the illustration of the wisdom, or of 
the ribaldry and obscenity of antiquity. He had pored 
over these old volumes so intensely, that they seemed to 

20 have been reflected in his countenance ; which, if the 
face be indeed an index of the mind, might be compared 
to a title-page of black-letter. 

On reaching the church porch, we found the parson 
rebuking the grey-headed sexton for having used mistle- 

25 toe among the greens with which the church was deco- 
rated. It was, he observed, an unholy plant, profaned by 
having been used by the Druids 4 in their mystic cere- 

1 Books in heavy black type, somewhat like German text. 

2 Gay fellow, bon conipagnon. 

3 Burned out, dry. 4 Ancient Celtic priests. 



Christmas Day 87 

monies ; and though it might be innocently employed in 
the festive ornamenting of halls and kitchens, yet it had 
been deemed by the Fathers of the Church as unhallowed, 
and totally unfit for sacred purposes. So tenacious was 
he on this point, that the poor sexton was obliged to strip 5 
down a great part of the humble trophies of his taste, be- 
fore the parson would consent to enter upon the service 
of the day. 

The interior of the church was venerable but simple ; 
on the walls were several mural monuments 1 of the Brace- 10 
bridges, and just beside the altar was a tomb of ancient 
workmanship, on which lay the effigy of a warrior in 
armour, with his legs crossed, a sign of his having been a 
Crusader. I was told it was one of the family who had 
signalized himself in the Holy Land, and the same whose 15 
picture hung over the fireplace in the hall. 

During service, Master Simon stood up in the pew, 
and repeated the responses very audibly ; evincing that 
kind of ceremonious devotion punctually observed by 
a gentleman of the old school, and a man of old fam- 20 
ily connexions. I observed, too, that he turned over the 
leaves of a folio prayer-book with something of a flourish ; 
possibly to show off an enormous seal ring which enriched 
one of his fingers, and which had the look of a family relic. 
But he was evidently most solicitous about the musical 25 
part of the service, keeping his eye fixed intently on the 
choir, and beating time with much gesticulation and em- 
phasis. 

The orchestra was in a small gallery, and presented a 
1 Tablets. 



88 The Sketch-Book 

most whimsical grouping of heads, piled one above the 
other, among which I particularly noticed that of the vil- 
lage tailor, a pale fellow with a retreating forehead and 
chin, who played on the clarionet, and seemed to have 
5 blown his face to a point ; and there was another, a short 
pursy man, stooping and labouring at a bass-viol, so as to 
show nothing but the top of a round bald head, like the 
egg of an ostrich. There were two or three pretty faces 
among the female singers, to which the keen air of a 

10 frosty morning had given a bright rosy tint ; but the 
gentlemen choristers had evidently been chosen, like old 
Cremona riddles, more for tone than looks ; and as sev- 
eral had to sing from the same book, there were cluster- 
ings of odd physiognomies, not unlike those groups of 

15 cherubs we sometimes see on country tombstones. 

The usual services of the choir were managed tolerably 
well, the vocal parts generally lagging a little behind the 
instrumental, and some loitering fiddler now and then 
making up for lost time by travelling over a passage with 

20 prodigious celerity, and clearing more bars than the 
keenest fox-hunter to be in at the death. But the great 
trial was an anthem that had been prepared and arranged 
by Master Simon, and on which he had founded great 
expectation. Unluckily there was a blunder at the very 

25 outset ; the musicians became flurried ; Master Simon 
was in a fever ; everything went on lamely and irregularly 
until they came to a chorus beginning, " Now let us sing 
with one accord," which seemed to be a signal for parting 
company : all became discord and confusion; each shifted 

30 for himself, and got to the end as well, or, rather, as 



Christmas Day , 89 

! soon as he could, excepting one old chorister in a pair of 
horn spectacles, bestriding and pinching a long sonorous 
nose, who happened to stand a little apart, and, being 
wrapped up in his own melody, kept on a quavering 
course, wriggling his head, ogling his book, and winding 5 
all up by a nasal solo of at least three bars' duration. 

The parson gave us a most erudite sermon on the rites 
and ceremonies of Christmas, and the propriety of 
observing it not merely as a day of thanksgiving, but of 
rejoicing ; supporting the correctness of his opinions 10 
by the earliest usages of the church, and enforcing them 
by the authorities of Theophilus of Cesarea, St. Cyprian, 
St. Chrysostom, St. Augustine, and a cloud more of saints 
and fathers, from whom he made copious quotations. I 
was a little at a loss to perceive the necessity of such a 15 
mighty array of forces to maintain a point which no one 
present seemed inclined to dispute; but I soon found 
that the good man had a legion of ideal adversaries to 
contend with ; having, in the course of his researches on 
the subject of Christmas, got completely embroiled in 20 
the sectarian controversies of the Revolution, when the 
Puritans made such a fierce assault upon the ceremonies 
of the church, and poor old Christmas was driven out of 
the land by proclamation of Parliament.* The worthy 

* From the Flying Eagle, a small Gazette, published December 25 
24th, 1652 : — "The House spent much time this day about the 
business of the Navy, for settling the affairs at sea, and before they 
rose, were presented with a terrible remonstrance against Christmas 
day, grounded upon divine Scriptures, 2 Cor. v. 16; / Cor. xv. 14, 
17; and in honour of the Lord's Day, grounded upon these Scrip- 30 



go The Sketch-Book 

parson lived but with times past, and knew but little 
of the present. 

Shut up among worm-eaten tomes in the retirement of 
his antiquated little study, the pages of old times were to 
5 him as the gazettes of the day ; while the era of the 
Revolution was mere modern history. He forgot that 
nearly two centuries had elapsed since the fiery persecu- 
tion of poor mince pie throughout the land ; when plum- 
porridge was denounced as " mere popery," and roast 

10 beef as anti-Christian ; and that Christmas had been 
brought in again triumphantly with the merry court of 
King Charles at the Restoration. He kindled into 
warmth with the ardour of his contest, and the host of 
imaginary foes with whom he had to combat ; he had a 

15 stubborn conflict with old Prynne and two or three other 
forgotten champions of the Round Heads 1 on the sub- 
ject of Christmas festivity ; and concluded by urging his 
hearers, in the most solemn and affecting manner, to 
stand to the traditional customs of their fathers, and 

20 feast and make merry on this joyful anniversary of the 
Church. 

I have seldom known a sermon attended apparently 

tures, John xx. I; Rev. i. 10; Psalm cxviii. 24; Lev. xxiii. 7, 11 ; 
Mark xv. 8; Psalm lxxxiv. 10, in which Christmas is called Anti- 
25 Christ's masse, and those Masse-mongers and Papists who observe 
it, etc. In consequence of which Parliament spent some time in 
consultation about the abolition of Christmas day, passed orders to 
that effect, and resolved to sit on the following day, which was com- 
monly called Christmas day." 



1 Puritans, who wore their hair close -cropped. 



Christmas Day 91 

with more immediate effects ; for on leaving the church 
the congregation seemed one and all possessed with the 
gaiety of spirit so earnestly enjoined by their pastor. The 
elder folks gathered in knots in the churchyard, greeting 
and shaking hands ; and the children ran about crying 5 
Ule! Ule! 1 and repeating some uncouth rhymes,* which 
the parson, who had joined us, informed me had been 
handed down from days of yore. The villagers doffed 
their hats to the Squire as he passed, giving him the good 
wishes of the season with every appearance of heartfelt 10 
sincerity, and were invited by him to the hall, to take 
something to keep out the cold of the weather ; and I 
heard blessings uttered by several of the poor, which 
convinced me that, in the midst of his enjoyments, 
the worthy old cavalier had not forgotten the true Christ- 15 
mas virtue of charity. 

On our way homeward his heart seemed overflowed 
with generous' and happy feelings. As we passed over a 
rising ground which commanded something of a pros- 
pect, the sounds of rustic merriment now and then 20 
reached our ears : the Squire paused for a few moments, 
and looked around with an air of inexpressible benignity. 
The beauty of the day was of itself sufficient to inspire 
philanthropy. Notwithstanding the frostiness of the 
morning, the sun in his cloudless journey had acquired 25 

* "Ule! Ule! 

Three puddings in a pule ! 
Crack nuts and cry ule ! " 



1 Yule {i.e. Christmas). 



92 The Sketch-Book 

sufficient power to melt away the thin covering of snow 
from every southern declivity, and to bring out the 
living green which adorns an English landscape even in 
midwinter. Large tracts of smiling verdure contrasted 
5 with the dazzling whiteness of the shaded slopes and 
hollows. Every sheltered bank, on which the broad rays 
rested, yielded its silver rill of cold and limpid water, 
glittering through the dripping grass ; and sent up slight 
exhalations to contribute to the thin haze that hung just 

10 above the surface of the earth. There was something 
truly cheering in this triumph of warmth and verdure 
over the frosty thraldom of winter ; it was, as the Squire 
observed, an emblem of Christmas hospitality, breaking 
through the chills of ceremony and selfishness, and thaw- 

15 ing every heart into a flow. He pointed with pleasure 
to the indications of good cheer reeking from the chim- 
neys of the comfortable farm-houses and low thatched 
cottages. " I love," said he, " to see this day well kept 
by rich and poor ; it is a great thing to have one day in 

20 the year, at least, when you are sure of being welcome 
wherever you go, and of having, as it were, the world all 
thrown open to you ; and I am almost disposed to join 
with Poor Robin, in his malediction on every churlish 
enemy to this honest festival, — 

25 "Those who at Christmas do repine 

And would fain hence dispatch him, 
May they with old Duke Humphry dine, 1 
Or else may Squire Ketch 2 catch 'em." 

The Squire went on to lament the deplorable decay of 
1 Have no dinner at all. 2 The hangman. 



Christmas Day 93 

the games and amusements which were once prevalent 
at this season among the lower orders, and countenanced 
by the higher; when the old halls of the castles and 
manor-houses were thrown open at daylight ; when the 
tables were covered with brawn, 1 and beef, and hum- 5 
ming 2 ale; when the harp and the carol resounded all 
day long, and when rich and poor were alike welcome to 
enter and make merry.* " Our old games and local 
customs,' ' said he, " had a great effect in making the 
peasant fond of his home, and the promotion of them 10 
by the gentry made him fond of his lord. They made 
the times merrier, and kinder, and better, and I can truly 
say, with one of our old poets, — 

" * I like them well — the curious preciseness 

And all-pretended gravity of those *5 

That seek to banish hence these harmless sports, 
Have thrust away much ancient honesty.' 3 

" The nation/' continued he, " is altered ; we have 
almost lost our simple true-hearted peasantry. They 
have broken asunder from the higher classes, and seem 20 

* "An English gentleman, at the opening of the great day, i.e. 
on Christmas day in the morning, had all his tenants and neighbours 
enter his hall by daybreak. The strong beer was broached, and the 
black-jacks 4 went plentifully about with toast, sugar and nutmeg, 
and good Cheshire cheese. The Hackin (the great sausage) must 25 
be boiled by daybreak, or else two young men must take the maiden 
{i.e. the cook) by the arms, and run her round the market-place 
till she is shamed of her laziness." 

— Round about our Sea- Coal Fire. 



1 Boar's flesh. 2 Frothing. 3 Virtue. 4 Leather jugs. 



94 The Sketch-Book 

to think their interests are separate. They have become 
too knowing, and begin to read newspapers, listen to ale- 
house politicians, and talk of reform. I think one mode 
to keep them in good humour in these hard times would 
5 be for the nobility and gentry to pass more time on their 
estates, mingle more among the country people, and set 
the merry old English games going again." 

Such was the good Squire's project for mitigating 
public discontent : and, indeed, he had once attempted 

10 to put his doctrine in practice, and a few years before 
had kept open house during the holidays in the old style. 
The country people, however, did not understand how to 
play their parts in the scene of hospitality; many un- 
couth circumstances occurred ; the manor was overrun by 

15 all the vagrants of the country, and more beggars drawn 
into the neighbourhood in one week than the parish 
officers could get rid of in a year. Since then, he had 
contented himself with inviting the decent part of the 
neighbouring peasantry to call at the hall on Christ- 

20 mas day, and with distributing beef, and bread, and ale 
among the poor, that they might make merry in their 
own dwellings. 

We had not been long home when the sound of music 
was heard from a distance. A band of country lads, 

25 without coats, their shirt-sleeves fancifully tied with rib- 
bons, their hats decorated with greens, and clubs in their 
hands, was seen advancing up the avenue, followed by a 
large number of villagers and peasantry. They stopped 
before the hall door, where the music struck up a pecul- 

30 iar air, and the lads performed a curious and intricate 



Christmas Day 95 

dance, advancing, retreating, and striking their clubs 
together, keeping exact time to the music ; while one, 
whimsically crowned with a fox's skin, the tail of which 
flaunted down his back, kept capering round the skirts of 
the dance, and rattling a Christmas box x with many antic 5 
gesticulations. 

The Squire eyed this fanciful exhibition with great 
interest and delight, and gave me a full account of its 
origin, which he traced to the times when the Romans 
held possession of the island ; plainly proving that this 10 
was a lineal descendant of the sword-dance of the ancients. 
" It was now," he said, " nearly extinct, but he had acci- 
dentally met with traces of it in the neighbourhood, and 
had encouraged its revival ; though, to tell the truth, it 
was too apt to be followed up by the rough cudgel play, 15 
and broken heads in the evening." 

After the dance was concluded, the whole party was 
entertained with brawn and beef, and stout home-brewed. 
The Squire himself mingled among the rustics, and was 
received with awkward demonstrations of deference and 20 
regard. It is true I perceived two or three of the 
younger peasants, as they were raising their tankards 
to their mouths, when the Squire's back was turned, 
making something of a grimace, and giving each other the 
wink ; but the moment they caught my eye they pulled 25 
grave faces, and were exceedingly demure. With Master 
Simon, however, they all seemed more at their ease. His 
varied occupations and amusements had made him well 
known throughout the neighbourhood. He was a visitor 
1 To receive gifts of money. 



96 The Sketch-Book 

at every farm-house and cottage ; gossiped with the farm- 
ers and their wives ; romped with their daughters ; and, 
like that type of a vagrant bachelor, the bumblebee, tolled 
the sweets from all the rosy lips of the country round. 
5 The bashfulness of the guests soon gave way before 
good cheer and affability. There is something genuine 
and affectionate in the gaiety of the lower orders, when 
it is excited by the bounty and familiarity of those above 
them ; the warm glow of gratitude enters into their mirth, 

10 and a kind word or a small pleasantry frankly uttered by 
a patron, gladdens the heart of the dependent more than 
oil and wine. When the Squire had retired, the merri- 
ment increased, and there was much joking and laughter, 
particularly between Master Simon and a hale, ruddy- 

15 faced, white-headed farmer, who appeared to be the wit 
of the village ; for I observed all his companions to wait 
with open mouths for his retorts, and burst into a gratui- 
tous laugh before they could well understand them. 
The whole house indeed seemed abandoned to merri- 

20 ment : as I passed to my room to dress for dinner, I 
heard the sound of music in a small court, and, looking 
through a window that commanded it, I perceived a band 
of wandering musicians, with pandean 1 pipes and tam- 
bourine; a pretty coquettish housemaid was dancing a 

25 jig with a smart country lad, while several of the other 
servants were looking on. In the midst of her sport the 
girl caught a glimpse of my face at the window, and, 
colouring up, ran off with an air of roguish affected con- 
fusion. 

1 Pipes of the god Pan; here, something like a mouth-organ. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

Lo, now is come our joyful'st feast ! 

Let every man be jolly, 
Eache roome with yvie leaves is drest 

And every post with holly. 
Now all our neighbours' chimneys smoke, 5 

And Christmas blocks are burning; 
Their ovens they with bak'd meats choke, 
And all their spits are turning. 
Without the door let sorrow lie, 

And if, for cold, it hap to die, 10 

Wee'le bury't in a Christmas pye, 
And evermore be merry. — Withers's Juvenilia. 

I had finished my toilet, and was loitering with Frank 
Bracebridge in the library, when we heard a distant 
thwacking sound, which he informed me was a signal for 15 
the serving up of the dinner. The Squire kept up old 
customs in kitchen as well as hall; and the rolling-pin, 
struck upon the dresser by the cook, summoned the 
servants to carry in the meats. 

" Just in this nick the cook knock'd thrice, 20 

And all the waiters in a trice 

His summons did obey; 
Each serving man, with dish in hand, 
March'd boldly up, like our train band, 

Presented, and away." * 25 

* Sir John Suckling. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 7 97 



98 The Sketch- Book 

The dinner was served up in the great hall, where the 
Squire always held his Christmas banquet. A blazing, 
crackling fire of logs had been heaped on to warm the 
spacious apartment, and the flame went sparkling and 
5 wreathing up the wide-mouthed chimney. The great 
picture of the crusader and his white horse had been pro- 
fusely decorated with greens for the occasion ; and holly 
and ivy had likewise been wreathed round the helmet and 
weapons on the opposite wall, which I understood were 

10 the arms of the same warrior. I must own, by the by, I 
had strong doubts about the authenticity of the painting 
and armour as having belonged to the crusader, they cer- 
tainly having the stamp of more recent days ; but I was 
told that the painting had been so considered time out of 

15 mind ; and that, as to the armour, it had been found in a 
lumber-room, and elevated to its present situation by the 
Squire, who at once determined it to be the armour of 
the family hero ; and as he was absolute authority on all 
such subjects in his own household, the matter had passed 

20 into current acceptation. A sideboard was set out just 
under this chivalric trophy, on which was a display of 
plate that might have vied (at least in variety) with 
Belshazzar's parade of the vessels of the temple : " flagons, 
cans, cups, beakers, goblets, basins, and ewers;" the 

25 gorgeous utensils of good companionship that had gradu- 
ally accumulated through many generations of jovial 
housekeepers. Before these stood the two Yule candles, 
beaming like two stars of the first magnitude ; other lights 
were distributed in branches, and the whole array glittered 

30 like a firmament of silver. 



The Christmas Dinner 



99 



We were ushered into this banqueting scene with the 
sound of minstrelsy, the old harper being seated on a 
stool beside the fireplace, and twanging his instrument 
with a vast deal more power than melody. Never did 
Christmas board display a more goodly and gracious as- 5 
semblage of countenances ; those who were not handsome 
were, at least, happy ; and happiness is a rare improver 
of your hard-favoured visage. I always consider an old 
English family as well worth studying as a collection of 
Holbein's portraits or Albert Durer's prints. There is 10 
much antiquarian lore to be acquired ; much knowledge 
of the physiognomies of former times. Perhaps it may be 
from having continually before their eyes those rows of 
old family portraits, with which the mansions of this 
country are stocked ; certain it is, that the quaint features 15 
of antiquity are often most faithfully perpetuated in these 
ancient lines; and I have traced an old family nose 
through a whole picture gallery, legitimately handed 
down from generation to generation, almost from the 
time of the Conquest. Something of the kind was to be 20 
observed in the worthy company around me. Many of 
their faces had evidently originated in a Gothic age, and 
been merely copied by succeeding generations ; and there 
was one little girl in particular, of staid demeanour, with a 
high Roman nose, and an antique vinegar aspect, who 25 
was a great favourite of the Squire's, being, as he said, a 
Bracebridge all over, and the very counterpart of one of 
his ancestors who figured in the court of Henry VIII. 

The parson said grace, which was not a short familiar 
one, such as is commonly addressed to the Deity in these 30 



ioo The Sketch-Book 

unceremonious days; but a long, courtly, well-worded 
one of the ancient school. There was now a pause, as if 
something was expected ; when suddenly the butler en- 
tered the hall with some degree of bustle : he was attended 
5 by a servant on each side with a large wax-light, and bore 
a silver dish, on which was an enormous pig's head, deco- 
rated with rosemary, with a lemon in its mouth, which 
was placed with great formality at the head of the table. 
The moment this pageant made its appearance, the harper 
10 struck up a flourish ; at the conclusion of which the 
young Oxonian, on receiving a hint from the Squire, gave, 
with an air of the most comic gravity, an old carol, the 
first verse of which was as follows : — 

" Caput apri defero 
15 Reddens laudes Domino. 

The boar's head in hand bring I, 
With garlands gay and rosemary. 
I pray you all synge merrily 
Qui estis in convivio." 

20 Though prepared to witness many of these little ec- 
centricities, from being apprised of the peculiar hobby 
of mine host, yet, I confess, the parade with which so 
odd a dish was introduced somewhat perplexed me, un- 
til I gathered from the conversation of the Squire and 

25 the parson, that it was meant to represent the bringing 
in of the boar's head : a dish formerly served up with 
much ceremony and the sound of minstrelsy and song, at 
great tables, on Christmas day. "I like the old custom," 
said the Squire, " not merely because it is stately and 

30 pleasing in itself, but because it was observed at the col- 



The Christmas Dinner 101 

lege at Oxford at which I was educated. When I hear 
the old song chanted, it brings to mind the time when I 
was young and gamesome, — and the noble old college- 
hall, — and my fellow-students loitering about in their 
black gowns ; many of whom, poor lads, are now in their 5 
graves ! " 

The parson, however, whose mind was not haunted by 
such associations, and who was always more taken up 
with the text than the sentiment, objected to the Oxoni- 
an's version of the carol ; which he affirmed was different 10 
from that sung at college. He went on, with the dry per- 
severance of a commentator, to give the college reading, 
accompanied by sundry annotations ; addressing himself 
at first to the company at large ; but finding their atten- 
tion gradually diverted to other talk and other objects, 15 
he lowered his tone as his number of auditors diminished, 
until he concluded his remarks in an undervoice, to a fat- 
headed old gentleman next him, who was silently engaged 
in the discussion of a huge plateful of turkey.* 

* The old ceremony of serving up the boar's head on Christmas 20 
day is still observed in the hall of Queen's College, Oxford. I was 
favoured by the parson with a copy of the carol as now sung, and, 
as it may be acceptable to such of my readers as are curious in these 
grave and learned matters, I give it entire. 

" The boar's head in hand bear I, 25 

Bedeck'd with bays and rosemary; 
And I pray you, my masters, be merry 
Quot estis in convivio. 
Caput apri defero, 
Reddens laudes domino. 3° 



102 The Sketch-Book 

The table was literally loaded with good cheer, and 
presented an epitome 1 of country abundance, in this 
season of overflowing larders. A distinguished post was 
allotted to "ancient sirloin," as mine host termed it; 
5 being, as he added, " the standard of old English hos- 
pitality, and a joint of goodly presence, and full of ex- 
pectation." 2 There were several dishes quaintly deco- 
rated, and which had evidently something traditional in 
their embellishments ; but about which, as I did not like 

10 to appear over-curious, I asked no questions. 

I could not, however, but notice a pie, magnificently 
decorated with peacock's feathers, in imitation of the 
tail of that bird, which overshadowed a considerable tract 
of the table. This, the Squire confessed, with some little 

15 hesitation, was a pheasant-pie, though a peacock-pie was 
certainly the most authentical ; but there had been such 

" The boar's head, as I understand, 
Is the rarest dish in all this land, 
Which thus bedeck'd with a gay garland 
2Q Let us servire cantico. 3 

Caput apri defero, etc. 

" Our steward hath provided this 
In honour of the King of Bliss, 
Which on this day to be served is 
2 - In Reginensi Atrio. 4 

Caput apri defero," 

etc., etc., etc. 



1 A summing up. 2 Promise. 

3 Serve with a song. 4 Queen's hall. 



The Christmas Dinner 103 

a mortality among the peacocks this season, that he could 
not prevail upon himself to have one killed.* 

It would be tedious, perhaps, to my wiser readers, who 
may not have that foolish fondness for odd and obsolete 
things to which I am a little given, were I to mention the 5 
other makeshifts of this worthy old humorist, 1 by which 
he was endeavouring to follow up, though at humble dis- 
tance, the quaint customs of antiquity. I was pleased, 
however, to see the respect shown to his whims by his 
children and relatives ; who, indeed, entered readily into 10 
the full spirit of them, and seemed all well versed in their 
parts ; having doubtless been present at many a rehearsal. 
I was amused, too, at the air of profound gravity with which 
the butler and other servants executed the duties assigned 
them, however eccentric. They had an old-fashioned *5 

* The peacock was anciently in great demand for stately enter- 
tainments. Sometimes it was made into a pie, at one end of which 
the head appeared above the crust in all its plumage, with the beak 
richly gilt; at the other end the tail was displayed. Such pies were 
served up at the solemn banquets of chivalry, when knights-errant 20 
pledged themselves to undertake any perilous enterprise, whence 
came the ancient oath, used by Justice Shallow, " by cock and pie." 2 
The peacock was also an important dish for the Christmas feast; 
and Massinger, in his " City Madam," gives some idea of the ex- 
travagance with which this, as well as other dishes, was prepared 25 
for' the gorgeous revels of the olden times : — 

" Men may talk of Country Christmasses, 

"Their thirty pound butter'd eggs, their pies of carps' tongues; 

" Their pheasants drench'd with ambergris 3 ; the carcases of three 
fat wethers bruised for gravy to make sauce for a single peacock." 3° 



1 Eccentric person. 2 See footnote 1, p. 200. 

3 A fragrant substance found in the spermaceti whale. 



104 The Sketch-Book 

look ; having, for the most part, been brought up in the 
household, and grown into keeping with the antiquated 
mansion, and the humours of its lord ; and most probably 
looked upon all his whimsical regulations as the established 
5 laws of honourable housekeeping. 

When the cloth was removed, the butler brought in a 
huge silver vessel of rare and curious workmanship, which 
he placed before the Squire. Its appearance was hailed 
with acclamation ; being the Wassail Bowl, so renowned 
10 in Christmas festivity. The contents had been prepared 
by the Squire himself; for it was a beverage in the skilful 
mixture of which he particularly prided himself: alleging 
that it was too abstruse and complex for the comprehen- 
sion of an ordinary servant. It was a potation, indeed, 
15 that might well make the heart of a toper leap within him ; 
being composed of the richest and raciest wines, highly 
spiced and sweetened, with roasted apples bobbing about 
the surface.* 

* The Wassail x Bowl was sometimes composed of ale instead of 
20 wine; with nutmeg, sugar, toast, ginger, and roasted crabs 2 : in 
this way the nut-brown beverage is still prepared in some old fami- 
lies and round the hearths of substantial farmers at Christmas. It 
is also called Lamb's Wool, and is celebrated by Herrick in his 
Twelfth Night : — 
25 " Next crowne the bowle full 

With gentle Lamb's Wool; 
Add sugar, nutmeg, and ginger 
With store of ale too ; 
And thus ye must doe 
30 To make the Wassaile a swinger." 3 

1 Anglo-Saxon wees hal, be hale, a pledge before drinking. 

2 Crab-apples. 3 'Stunner '; pronounced swinjer. 



The Christmas Dinner 105 

The old gentleman's whole countenance beamed with a 
serene look of indwelling delight, as he stirred this mighty 
bowl. Having raised it to his lips, with a hearty wish of 
a merry Christmas to all present, he sent it brimming round 
the board, for every one to follow his example, according 5 
to the primitive style ; pronouncing it " the ancient foun- 
tain of good feeling, where all hearts met together." * 

There was much laughing and rallying as the honest 
emblem of Christmas joviality circulated, and was kissed 
rather coyly by the ladies. When it reached Master Si- 10 
mon, he raised it in both hands, and with the air of a boon 
companion struck up an old Wassail chanson. 

" The brown bowle, 
The merry brown bowle, 
As it goes round about-a, 15 

Fill 

Still, 
Let the world say what it will, 
And drink your fill all out-a. 

"The deep canne, 20 

The merry deep canne, 
As thou dost freely quaff-a, 

Sing 

Fling, 
Be as merry as a king, 25 

And sound a lusty laugh-a." f 

* " The custom of drinking out of the same cup gave place to 
each having his cup. When the steward came to the doore with 
the Wassel, he was to cry three times, Wassel, Wassel, Wassel, and 
then the chappell (chaplain) was to answer with a song." 30 

— Arch/eologia. 
t From Poor Robin's Almanac. 



106 The Sketch-Book 

Much of the conversation during dinner turned upon 
family topics, to which I was a stranger. There was, how- 
ever, a great deal of rallying of Master Simon about some 
gay widow, with whom he was accused of having a flirta- 

5tion. This attack was commenced by the ladies; but it 
was continued throughout the dinner by the fat-headed 
old gentleman next the parson, with the persevering assi- 
duity of a slow hound ; being one of those long-winded 
jokers, who, though rather dull at starting game, are un- 

10 rivalled for their talents in hunting it down. At every 
pause in the general conversation, he renewed his banter- 
ing in pretty much the same terms ; winking hard at me 
with both eyes, whenever he gave Master Simon what he 
considered a home thrust. The latter, indeed, seemed 

15 fond of being teased on the subject, as old bachelors are 
apt to be ; and he took occasion to inform me, in an un- 
dertone, that the lady in question was a prodigiously fine 
woman, and drove her own curricle. 1 

The dinner-time passed away in this flow of innocent 

20 hilarity, and, though the old hall may have resounded in 
its time with many a scene of broader rout 2 and revel, yet 
I doubt whether it ever witnessed more honest and genu- 
ine enjoyment. How easy it is for one benevolent being 
to diffuse pleasure around him ; and how truly is a kind 

25 heart a fountain of gladness, making everything in its 
vicinity to freshen into smiles ! the joyous disposition 
of the worthy Squire was perfectly contagious ; he was 
happy himself, and disposed to make all the world happy ; 

1 Two-wheeled, two-horse carriage. 

2 Festivity. 



The Christmas Dinner io 7 

and the little eccentricities of his humour did but season, 
in a manner, the sweetness of his philanthropy. 

When the ladies had retired, the conversation, as usual, 
became still more animated ; many good things were 
broached which had been thought of during dinner, but 5 
which would not exactly do for a lady's ear ; and though 
I cannot positively affirm that there was much wit uttered, 
yet I have certainly heard many contests of rare wit pro- 
duce much less laughter. Wit, after all, is a mighty 
tart, pungent ingredient, and much too acid for some 10 
stomachs ; but honest good humour is the oil and wine 
of a merry meeting, and there is no jovial companionship 
equal to that where the jokes are rather small, and the 
laughter abundant. 

The Squire told several long stories of early college 15 
pranks and adventures, in some of which the parson had 
been a sharer ; though in looking at the latter, it required 
some effort of imagination to figure such a little dark 
anatomy 1 of a man into the perpetrator of a madcap 
gambol. Indeed, the two college chums presented 20 
pictures of what men may be made by their different 
lots in life. The Squire had left the university to live 
lustily on his paternal domains, in the vigorous enjoy- 
ment of prosperity and sunshine, and had flourished on 
to a hearty and florid old age ; whilst the poor parson, on 25 
the contrary, had dried and withered away, among dusty 
tomes, in the silence and shadows of his study. Still 
there seemed to be a spark of almost extinguished fire, 
feebly glimmering in the bottom of his soul ; and as the 
1 Skeleton. 



108 The Sketch-Book 

Squire hinted at a sly story of the parson and a pretty 
milkmaid, whom they once met on the banks of the 
Isis, 1 the old gentleman made an "alphabet of faces," 
which, as far as I could decipher his physiognomy, I 
5 verily believe was indicative of laughter; — indeed, I 
have rarely met with an old gentleman that took absolute 
offence at the imputed gallantries of his youth. 

I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on 
the dry land of sober judgement. The company grew 

10 merrier and louder as their jokes grew duller. Master 
Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grasshopper 
filled with dew ; his old songs grew of a warmer com- 
plexion, and he began to talk maudlin about the widow. 
He even gave a long song about the wooing of a widow 

15 which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent 
black-letter work, entitled Cupid 's Solicitor for Love, con- 
taining store of good advice for bachelors, and which he 
promised to lend me. The first verse was to this effect : — 

"He that will woo a widow must not dally, 
20 He must make hay while the sun doth shine; 

He must not stand with her, shall I, shall I? 
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine." 

This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who 

made several attempts to tell a rather broad story out 

25 of Joe Miller, 2 that was pat to the purpose ; but he always 

stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting the latter part 

excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the 

1 The Thames at Oxford. 

2 A collection of jokes, published in 1739, and ironically attributed 
to an actor, Joseph Miller. 



The Christmas Dinner 109 

effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into 
a doze, and his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. 
Just at this juncture we were summoned to the drawing- 
room, and, I suspect, at the private instigation of mine 
host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with as 
proper love of decorum. 

After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given 
up to the younger members of the family, who, prompted 
to all kind of noisy mirth by the Oxonian and Master 
Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment, as 10 
they played at romping games. I delight in witnessing 
the gambols of children, and particularly at this happy 
holiday season, and could not help stealing out of the 
drawing-room on hearing one of their peals of laughter. 
I found them at the game of blind-man's-buff. Master 15 
Simon, who was the leader of their revels, and seemed on 
all occasions to fulfil the office of that ancient potentate, 
the Lord of Misrule,* was blinded in the midst of the 
hall. The little beings were as busy about him as the mock 
fairies about Falstaff; pinching him, plucking at the 20 
skirts of his coat, and tickling him with straws. One fine 
blue-eyed girl of about thirteen, with her flaxen hair all in 
beautiful confusion, her frolic face in a glow, her frock 
half torn off her shoulders, a complete picture of a romp, 

* " At Christmasse there was in the Kinge's house, wheresoever 25 
hee was lodged, a lorde of misrule, or mayster of merie disportes, 
and the like had ye in the house of every nobleman of honour, or 
good worshippe, were he spirituall or temporal." 1 — Stowe. 



1 Ecclesiastical or civil. 



no The Sketch-Book 

was the chief tormentor; and, from the slyness with 
which Master Simon avoided the smaller game, and 
hemmed this wild little nymph in corners, and obliged 
her to jump shrieking over chairs, I suspected the rogue 

5 of being not a whit more blinded than was convenient. 

When I returned to the drawing-room, I found the 

company seated round the fire, listening to the parson, 

who was deeply ensconced in a high-backed oaken chair, 

the work of some cunning artificer of yore, which had 

iobeen brought from the library for his particular accom- 
modation. From this venerable piece of furniture, 
with which his shadowy figure and dark weazen face 
so admirably accorded, he was dealing out strange 
accounts of the popular superstitions and legends of 

15 the surrounding country, with which he had become 
acquainted in the course of his antiquarian researches. 
I am half inclined to think that the old gentleman was 
himself somewhat tinctured with superstition, as men are 
very apt to be who live a recluse and studious life in a 

20 sequestered part of the country, and pore over black- 
letter tracts, 1 so often filled with the marvellous and 
supernatural. He gave us several anecdotes of the fan- 
cies of the neighbouring peasantry, concerning the effigy 
of the crusader, which lay on the tomb by the church 

25 altar. As .it was the only monument of the kind in that 
part of the country, it had always been regarded with 
feelings of superstition by the good wives of the village. 
It was said to get up from the tomb and walk the rounds 
of the churchyard in stormy nights, particularly when it 
1 Pamphlets. 



The Christmas Dinner 1 1 1 

thundered ; and one old woman, whose cottage bordered 
on the churchyard, had seen it through the windows of 
the church, when the moon shone, slowly pacing up and 
down the aisles. It was the belief that some wrong had 
been left unredressed by the deceased, or some treasure 5 
hidden, which kept the spirit in a state of trouble and rest- 
lessness. Some talked of gold and jewels buried in the 
tomb, over which the spectre kept watch ; and there 
was a story current of a sexton in old times, who endeav- 
oured to break his way to the coffin at night, but, just 10 
as he reached it, received a violent blow from the marble 
hand of the effigy, which stretched him senseless on the 
pavement. These tales were often laughed at by some 
of the sturdier among the rustics, yet, when night came 
on, there were many of the stoutest unbelievers that *5 
were shy of venturing alone in the footpath that led 
across the churchyard. 

From these and other anecdotes that followed, the 
crusader appeared to be the favourite hero of ghost- 
stories throughout the vicinity. His picture, which hung 20 
up in the hall, was thought by the servants to have some- 
thing supernatural about it ; for they remarked that, in 
whatever part of the hall you went, the eyes of the war- 
rior were still fixed on you. The old porter's wife, too, 
at the lodge, who had been born and brought up in the 25 
family, and was a great gossip among the maid-servants, 
affirmed, that in her young days she had often heard say, 
that on Midsummer eve, when it was well known all 
kinds of ghosts, goblins, and fairies become visible and 
walk abroad, the crusader used to mount his horse, come 30 



ii2 The Sketch-Book 

down from his picture, ride about the house, down the 
avenue, and so to the church to visit the tomb ; on which 
occasion the church door most civilly swung open of 
itself; not that he needed it, for he rode through closed 
5 gates and even stone walls, and had been seen by one of 
the dairy- maids to pass between two bars of the great 
park gate, making himself as thin as a sheet of paper. 

All these superstitions I found had been very much 
countenanced by the Squire, who, though not super- 

iostitious himself, was very fond of seeing others so. 
He listened to every goblin tale of the neighbouring 
gossips with infinite gravity, and held the porter's wife 
in high favour on account of her talent for the mar- 
vellous. He was himself a great reader of old legends 

15 and romances, and often lamented that he could not 
believe in them ; for a superstitious person, he thought, 
must live in a kind of fairy land. 

Whilst we were all attention to the parson's stories, 
our ears were suddenly assailed by a burst of hetero- 

2ogeneous sounds from the hall, in which were mingled 
something like the clang of rude minstrelsy, with the 
uproar of many small voices and girlish laughter. The 
door suddenly flew open, and a train came trooping into 
the room, that might almost have been mistaken for the 

25 breaking up of the court of Fairy. That indefatigable 
spirit, Master Simon, in the faithful discharge of his 
duties as lord of misrule, had conceived the idea of a 
Christmas mummery or masking; and having called 
in to his assistance the Oxonian and the young officer, 

30 who were equally ripe for anything that should occasion 



The Christmas Dinner 113 

romping and merriment, they had carried it into instant 
effect. The old housekeeper had been consulted; the 
antique clothes-presses and wardrobes rummaged, and 
made to yield up the relics of finery that had not seen 
the light for several generations ; the younger part of 5 
the company had been privately convened from the 
parlour and hall, and the whole had been bedizened out 
into a burlesque imitation of an antique mask.* 

Master Simon led the van, as " Ancient Christmas," 
quaintly apparelled in a ruff, a short cloak, which had 10 
very much the aspect of one of the old housekeeper's 
petticoats, and a hat that might have served for a village 
steeple, and must indubitably have figured in the days of 
the Covenanters. From under this his nose curved boldly 
forth, flushed with a frost-bitten bloom, that seemed the 15 
very trophy of a December blast. He was accompanied 
by the blue-eyed romp, dished up as " Dame Mince-Pie," 
in the venerable magnificence of a faded brocade, long 
stomacher, peaked hat, and high-heeled shoes. The 
young officer appeared as Robin Hood, in a sporting 20 
dress of Kendal green, and a foraging * cap with a gold 
tassel. 

The costume, to be sure, did not bear testimony to 

* Maskings or mummeries were favourite sports at Christmas in 
old times; and the wardrobes at halls and manor-houses were often 25 
laid under contribution to furnish dresses and fantastic disguisings. 
I strongly suspect Master Simon to have taken the idea of his from 
Ben Jonson's Masque of Christmas. 



1 Undress. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 8 



H4 The Sketch-Book 

deep research, and there was an evident eye to the 
picturesque, natural to a young gallant in the presence 
of his mistress. The fair Julia hung on his arm in a 
pretty rustic dress, as " Maid Marian. " The rest of the 
5 train had been metamorphosed in various ways : the girls 
trussed up in the finery of the ancient belles of the Brace- 
bridge line, and the striplings bewhiskered with burnt 
cork, and gravely clad in broad skirts, hanging sleeves, 
and full-bottomed 1 wigs, to represent the character of 

10 Roast Beef, Plum-Pudding, and other worthies celebrated 
in ancient maskings. The whole was under the control 
of the Oxonian, in the appropriate character of Misrule ; 
and I observed that he exercised rather a mischievous 
sway with his wand over the smaller personages of the 

15 pageant. 

The irruption of his motley crew, with beat of drum, 
according to ancient custom, was the consummation of 
uproar and merriment. Master Simon covered himself 
with glory by the stateliness with which, as Ancient 

20 Christmas, he walked a minuet with the peerless, though 
giggling, Dame Mince-Pie. It was followed by a dance 
of all the characters, which, from its medley of costumes, 
seemed as though the old family portraits had skipped 
down from their frames to join in the sport. Different 

25 centuries were figuring 2 at cross hands and right and left ; 
the dark ages were cutting pirouettes and rigadoons ; 
and the days of Queen Bess jigging merrily down the 
middle, through a line of succeeding generations. 

The worthy Squire contemplated these fantastic sports, 
1 Flowing and wide at the bottom. 2 Dancing the figures. 



The Christmas Dinner 115 

and this resurrection of his old wardrobe, with the simple 
relish of childish delight. He stood chuckling and rub- 
bing his hands, and scarcely hearing a word the parson 
said, notwithstanding that the latter was discoursing most 
authentically on the ancient and stately dance of the 5 
Pavon, or peacock, from which he conceived the minuet 
to be derived.* For my part, I was in a continual 
excitement from the varied scenes of whim and innocent 
gaiety passing before me. It was inspiring to see wild- 
eyed frolic and warm-hearted hospitality breaking out from 10 
among the chills and glooms of winter, and old age 
throwing off his apathy, and catching once more the fresh- 
ness of youthful enjoyment. I felt also an interest in the 
scene, from the consideration that these fleeting customs 
were posting fast into oblivion, and that this was, perhaps, 15 
the only family in England in which the whole of them was 
still punctiliously observed. There was a quaintness, too, 
mingled with all this revelry, that gave it a peculiar zest : 
it was suited to the time and place ; and as the old manor- 
house almost reeled with mirth and wassail, it seemed 20 
echoing back the joviality of long departed years. f 
But enough of Christmas and its gambols ; it is time 

* Sir John Hawkins, speaking of the dance called the Pavon, 
from pavo, a peacock, says : " It is a grave and majestic dance; the 
method of dancing it anciently was by gentlemen dressed with caps 25 
and swords, by those of the long robe in their gowns, by the peers 
in their mantles, and by the ladies in gowns with long trains, the 
motion whereof in dancing resembled that of a peacock." 

— History of Music, 

t At the time of the first publication of this paper, the picture of 30 



n6 The Sketch-Book 

for me to pause in this garrulity. Methinks I hear the 
questions asked by my graver readers, " To what purpose 
is all this; how is the world to be made wiser by this 
talk? " Alas ! is there not wisdom enough extant for the 
5 instruction of the world? And if not, are there not 
thousands of abler pens labouring for its improvement? — 
It is so much pleasanter to please than to instruct, — to 
play the companion rather than the preceptor. 

What, after all, is the mite of wisdom that I could 

10 throw into the mass of knowledge ; or how am I sure 
that my sagest deductions may be safe guides for the 
opinions of others ? But in writing to amuse, if I fail, 
the only evil is in my own disappointment. If, however, 
I can by any lucky chance, in these days of evil, rub out 

15 one wrinkle from the brow of care, or beguile the heavy 
heart of one moment of sorrow ; if I can now and then 
penetrate through the gathering film of misanthropy, 
prompt a benevolent view of human nature, and make 
my reader more in good humour with his fellow-beings 

20 and himself, surely, surely, I shall not then have written 
entirely in vain. 

an old-fashioned Christmas in the country was pronounced by some 
as out of date. The author had afterwards an opportunity of wit- 
nessing almost all the customs above described, existing in unex- 
25 pected vigour in the skirts of Derbyshire and Yorkshire, where he 
passed the Christmas holidays. The reader will find some notice 
of them in the author's account of his sojourn at Newstead Abbey. 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

Oh ! friendly to the best pursuits of man, 
Friendly to thought, to virtue, and to peace, 
Domestic life in rural pleasures passed ! 

— Cowper 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the 5 
English character must not confine his observations to 
the metropolis. 1 He must go forth into the country ; he 
must sojourn in villages and hamlets ; he must visit 
castles, villas, farm-houses, cottages; he must wander 
through parks and gardens ; along hedges and green 10 
lanes ; he must loiter about country churches ; attend 
wakes 2 and fairs, and other rural festivals ; and cope 
with the people in all their conditions, and all their 
habits and humours. 

In some countries the large cities absorb the wealth 15 
and fashion of the nation ; they are the only fixed abodes 
of elegant and intelligent society, and the country is in- 
habited almost entirely by boorish peasantry. In Eng- 
land, on the contrary, the metropolis is a mere gathering- 
place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 20 
they devote a small portion of the year to a hurry of 
gaiety and dissipation, and, having indulged this kind of 
carnival, return again to the apparently more congenial 

1 London. 2 Vigils for the dead. 

117 



1 1 8 The Sketch-Book 

habits of rural life. The various orders of society are 
therefore diffused over the whole surface of the kingdom, 
and the most retired neighbourhoods afford specimens of 
the different ranks. 

5 The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural 
" feeling. They possess a quick sensibility to the beauties 
of nature, and a keen relish for the pleasures and em- 
ployments of the country. This passion seems inherent 
in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, born and brought 

io up among brick walls and bustling streets, enter with 
facility into rural habits, and evince a tact for rural occu- 
pation. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicin- 
ity of the metropolis, where he often displays as much 
pride and zeal in the cultivation of his flower garden, and 

15 the maturing of his fruits, as he does in the conduct of his 
business, and the success of a commercial enterprise. 
Even those less fortunate individuals who are doomed to 
pass their lives in the midst of din and traffic, contrive to 
have something'that shall remind them of the green aspect 

20 of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the 
city, the drawing-room window resembles frequently a 
bank of flowers ; every spot capable of vegetation has its 
grass-plot and flower bed ; and every square its mimic 
park, laid out with picturesque taste, and gleaming with 

25 refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt tc 
form an unfavourable opinion of his social character. He 
is either absorbed in business, or distracted by the thou- 
sand engagements that dissipate time, thought, and 

30 feeling in this huge metropolis. He has, therefore, too 



Rural Life in England 119 

commonly a look of hurry and abstraction. Wherever he 
happens to be, he is on the point of going somewhere 
else ; at the moment he is talking on one subject, his mind 
is wandering to another ; and while paying a friendly visit, 
he is calculating how* he shall economize time so as to 5 
pay the other visits allotted in the morning. An im- 
mense metropolis, like London, is calculated to make men 
selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and transient 
meetings they can but deal briefly in commonplaces. 
They present but the cold superficies 1 of character — its 10 
rich and genial qualities have no time to be warmed into 
a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to 
his natural feelings. He breaks loose gladly from the 
cold formalities and negative civilities of town, throws off 15 
his habits of shy reserve, and becomes joyous and free- 
hearted. He manages to collect round him all the con- 
veniences and elegancies of polite life, and to banish its 
restraints. His country-seat abounds with every requisite, 
either for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or 20 
rural exercise. Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, 
and sporting implements of all kinds, are at hand. He 
puts no constraint either upon his guests or himself, but 
in the true spirit of hospitality provides the means of 
enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according to 25 
his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and 
in what is called landscape-gardening, is unrivalled. 
They have studied nature intently, and discover an ex- 

1 Surface. 



120 The Sketch-Book 

quisite sense of her beautiful forms and harmonious com- 
binations. Those charms which in other countries she 
lavishes in wild solitudes, are here assembled round the 
haunts of domestic life. They seem to have caught her 
5 coy and furtive graces, and spread them, like witchery, 
about their rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence 
of English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend like 
sheets of vivid green, with here and there clumps of 

10 gigantic trees, heaping up rich piles of foliage : the 
solemn pomp of groves and woodland glades, with the 
deer trooping in silent herds across them ; the hare, 
bounding away to the covert ; or the pheasant, suddenly 
bursting upon the wing : the brook, taught to wind in 

15 natural meanderings or expand into a glassy lake : the 
sequestered pool, reflecting the quivering trees, with the 
yellow leaf sleeping on its bosom, and the trout roaming 
fearlessly about its limpid waters ; while some rustic 
temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dank with age, 

20 gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. 

These are but a few of the features of park scenery ; 
but what most delights me, is the creative talent with 
which the English decorate the unostentatious abodes of 
middle life. The rudest habitation, the most unpromis- 

25 ing and scanty portion of land, in the hands of an Eng- 
lishman of taste, becomes a little paradise. With a nicely 
discriminating eye, he seizes at once upon its capabilities, 
and pictures in his mind the future landscape. The 
sterile spot grows into loveliness under his hand ; and 

30 yet the operations of art which produce the eifect are 



Rural Life in England 121 

scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and training 
of some trees ; the cautious pruning of others ; the nice 
distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful 
foliage ; the introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; 
the partial opening to a peep of blue distance, or silvers 
gleam of water : all these are managed with a delicate 
tact, a pervading yet quiet assiduity, like the magic touch- 
ings with which a painter finishes up a favourite picture. 

The residence of people of fortune and refinement in 
the country has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in 10 
rural economy that descends to the lowest class. The 
very labourer, with his thatched cottage and narrow slip 
of ground, attends to their embellishment. The trim 
hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the little flower 
bed bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up 15 
against the wall, and hanging its blossoms about the lat- 
tice, the pot of flowers in the window, the holly, provi- 
dently planted about the house, to cheat winter of its 
dreariness, and to throw in a semblance of green summer 
to cheer the fireside : all these bespeak the influence of 20 
taste, flowing down from high sources, and pervading the 
lowest levels of the public mind. If ever Love, as poets 
sing, delights to visit a cottage, it must be the cottage of 
an English peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of 25 
the English has had a great and salutary effect upon the 
national character. I do not know a finer race of men 
than the English gentlemen. Instead of the softness and 
effeminacy which characterize the men of rank in most 
countries, they exhibit a union of elegance and strength, 30 



122 The Sketch-Book 

a robustness of frame and freshness of complexion, which 
I am inclined to attribute to their living so much in the 
open air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating re- 
creations of the country. These hardy exercises produce 
5 also a healthful tone of mind and spirits, and a manliness 
and simplicity of manners which even the follies and dis- 
sipations of the town cannot easily pervert, and can 
never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the differ- 
ent orders of society seem to approach more freely, to 

io be more disposed to blend and operate favourably upon 
each other. The distinctions between them do not ap- 
pear to be so marked and impassable as in the cities. 
The manner in which property has been distributed into 
small estates and farms has established a regular grada- 

J 5 tion from the noblemen, through the classes of gentry, 1 
small landed proprietors, and substantial farmers, down 
to the labouring peasantry ; and while it has thus banded 
the extremes of society together, has infused into each 
intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, it 

20 must be confessed, is not so universally the case at pres- 
ent as it was formerly, the larger estates having, in late 
years of distress, absorbed the smaller, and, in some 
parts of the country, almost annihilated the sturdy race 
of small farmers. These, however, I believe, are but 

25 casual breaks in the general system I have mentioned. 
In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debas- 
ing. It leads a man forth among scenes of natural gran- 
deur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of 
his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most 
1 Those ranking just below the nobility. 



Rural Life in England 123 

elevating of external influences. Such a man may be 
simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man 
of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an 
intercourse with the lower orders in rural life, as he does 
when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. 5 
He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to 
waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the 
honest, heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed 
the very amusements of the country bring men more and 
more together ; and the sound of hound and horn blend 10 
all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great 
reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular 
among the inferior orders in England than they are in 
any other country ; and why the latter have endured so 
many excessive pressures and extremities, without repin- 15 
ing more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune 
and privilege. 

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may 
also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through 
British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from 20 
rural life ; those incomparable descriptions of nature 
that abound in the British poets, that have continued 
down from The Flower and the Leaf of Chaucer, and 
have brought into our closets all the freshness and fra- 
grance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of 25 
other countries appear as if they had paid nature an oc- 
casional visit, and become acquainted with her general 
charms ; but the British poets have lived and revelled 
with her — they have wooed her in her most secret 
haunts — they have watched her minutest caprices. A 30 



124 The Sketch-Book 

spray could not tremble in the breeze — a leaf could not 
rustle to the ground — a diamond drop could not patter 
in the stream — a fragrance could not exhale from the 
humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the 
5 morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned 
and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beauti- 
ful morality. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural 
occupations has been wonderful on the face of the country. 

ioA great part of the island is rather level, and would be 
monotonous, were it not for the charms of culture ; but 
it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with castles and 
palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It 
does not abound in grand and sublime prospects, but 

15 rather in little home scenes of rural repose and sheltered 
quiet. Every antique farm-house and moss-grown cot- 
tage is a picture ; and as the roads are continually wind- 
ing, and the view is shut in by groves and hedges, the 
eye is delighted by a continual succession of small land- 

20 scapes of captivating loveliness. 

The great charm, however, of English scenery is the 
moral feeling that seems to pervade it. It is associated 
in the mind with ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, well- 
established principles, of hoary usage and reverend custom. 

25 Everything seems to be the growth of ages of regular and 
peaceful existence. The old church of remote architect- 
ure, with its low, massive portal ; its Gothic tower ; its 
windows rich with tracery x and painted glass, in scrupu- 
lous preservation ; its stately monuments of warriors and 
1 Open work in stone. 



Rural Life in England 125 

worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the present lords 
of the soil ; its tombstones, recording successive genera- 
tions of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plough the 
same fields, and kneel at the same altar ; — the parsonage, 
a quaint, irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired 5 
and altered in the tastes of various ages and occupants ; 
— the stile and footpath leading from the churchyard, 
across pleasant fields, and along shady hedgerows, accord- 
ing to an immemorial right of way ; — the neighbouring 
village, with its venerable cottages, its public green 10 
sheltered by trees, under which the forefathers of the 
present race have sported ; — the antique family mansion, 
standing apart in some little rural domain, but looking 
down with a protecting air on the surrounding scene : all 
these common features of English landscape evince a 15 
calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of 
home-bred virtues and local attachments, that speak 
deeply and touchingly for the moral character of the 
nation. 

It is a pleasing sight of a Sunday morning, when the 20 
bell is sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to 
behold the peasantry in their best finery, with ruddy faces 
and modest cheerfulness, thronging tranquilly along the 
green lanes to church ; but it is still more pleasing to see 
them in the evenings, gathering about their cottage doors, 25 
and appearing to exult in the humble comforts and em- 
bellishments which their own hands have spread around 
them. 

It is this sweet home feeling, this settled repose of 
affection in the domestic scene, that is, after all, the 30 



126 The Sketch-Book 

parent of the steadiest virtues and purest enjoyments ; 
and I cannot close these desultory remarks better than 
by quoting the words of a modern English poet, who has 
depicted it with remarkable felicity : — 

5 Through each gradation, from the castled hall, 

The city dome, the villa crown'd with shade, 
But chief from modest' mansions numberless, 
In town or hamlet, shelt'ring middle life, 
Down to the cottaged vale, and straw-roof d shed; 

10 This western isle hath long been famed for scenes 

Where bliss domestic finds a dwelling-place; 
Domestic bliss, that, like a harmless dove, 
(Honour and sweet endearment keeping guard), 
Can centre in a little quiet nest 

15 All that desire would fly for through the earth; 

That can, the world eluding, be itself 
A world enjoy'd; that wants no witnesses 
But its own sharers, and approving heaven; 
That, like a flower deep hid in rocky cleft, 

20 Smiles, though 'tis looking only at the sky.* 

* From a poem on the death of the Princess Charlotte, by the 
Reverend Rann Kennedy, A.M. 



THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

A gentleman ! 
What o' the Woolpack? or the sugar-chest? 
Or lists 1 of velvet ? which is't, pound, or yard, 
You vend your gentry by? 

— Beggar's Bush. 5 

There are few places more favourable to the study of 
character than an English country church. I was once 
passing a few weeks at the seat of a friend, who resided 
in the vicinity of one, the appearance of which particu- 
larly struck my fancy. It was one of those rich morsels 10 
of quaint antiquity which give such a peculiar charm to 
English landscape. It stood in the midst of a country 
filled with ancient families, and contained, within its cold 
and silent aisles, the congregated dust of many noble 
generations. The interior walls were incrusted with 15 
monuments of every age and style. The light streamed 
through windows dimmed with armorial bearings, richly 
emblazoned in stained glass. In various parts of the 
church were tombs of knights and high-born dames, of 
gorgeous workmanship, with their effigies in coloured 20 
marble. On every side the eye was struck with some in- 
stance of aspiring mortality ; some haughty memorial 
which human pride had erected over its kindred dust, in 
this temple of the most humble of all religions. 

1 Strips. 
127 



128 The Sketch-Book 

The congregation was composed of the neighbouring 
people of rank, who sat in pews, sumptuously lined and 
cushioned, furnished with richly gilded prayer-books, and 
decorated with their arms upon the pew doors ; of the 
5 villages and peasantry, who filled the back seats, and a 
small gallery beside the organ ; and of the poor of the 
parish, who were ranged on benches in the aisles. 

The service was performed by a snuffling, well-fed 
vicar, who had a snug dwelling near the church. He was 

10 a privileged guest at all the tables of the neighbourhood, 
and had been the keenest fox-hunter in the country; 
until age and good living had disabled him from doing 
anything more than ride to see the hounds throw off, 1 
and make one at the hunting dinner. 

15 Under the ministry of such a pastor, I found it im- 
possible to get into the train of thought suitable to the 
time and place : so, having, like many other feeble 
Christians, compromised with my conscience, by laying 
the sin of my own delinquency at another person's thresh- 

20 old, I occupied myself by making observations on my 
neighbours. 

I was as yet a stranger in England, and curious to 
notice the manners of its fashionable classes. I found, 
as usual, that there was the least pretension where there 

25 was the most acknowledged title to respect. I was par- 
ticularly struck, for instance, with the family of a nobleman 
of high rank, consisting of several sons and daughters. 
Nothing could be more simple and unassuming than their 
appearance. They generally came to church in the 
1 Get the scent. 



The Country Church 129 

plainest equipage, and often on foot. The young ladies 
would stop and converse in the kindest manner with the 
peasantry, caress the children, and listen to the stories of 
the humble cottagers. Their countenances were open 
and beautifully fair, with an expression of high refinement, 5 
but, at the same time, a frank cheerfulness, and an en- 
gaging affability. Their brothers were tall, and elegantly 
formed. They were dressed fashionably, but simply; 
with strict neatness and propriety, but without any man- 
nerism or foppishness. Their whole demeanour was 10 
easy and natural, with that lofty grace and noble frankness 
which bespeak freeborn souls that have never been 
checked in their growth by feelings of inferiority. There 
is a healthful hardiness about real dignity, that never 
dreads contact and communion with others, however 15 
humble. It is only spurious pride that is morbid and 
sensitive, and shrinks from every touch. I was pleased to 
see the manner in which they would converse with the 
peasantry about those rural concerns and field-sports in 
which the gentlemen of this country so much delight. 20 
In these conversations there was neither haughtiness on 
the one part, nor servility on the other ; and you were 
only reminded of the difference of rank by the habitual 
respect of the peasant. 

In contrast to these was the family of a wealthy citizen, 25 
who had amassed a vast fortune ; and, having purchased 
the estate and mansion of a ruined nobleman in the 
neighbourhood, was endeavouring to assume all the style 1 
and dignity of an hereditary lord of the soil. The family 
1 Title, as the Squire. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 9 



130 The Sketch-Book 

always came to church en prince} They were rolled 
majestically along in a carriage emblazoned with arms. 
The crest glittered in silver radiance from every part of 
the harness where a crest could possibly be placed. A 

5 fat coachman, in a three-cornered hat, richly laced, and 
a flaxen wig, curling close round his rosy face, was seated 
on the box, with a sleek Danish dog beside him. Two 
footmen, in gorgeous liveries, with huge bouquets, and 
gold-headed canes, lolled behind. The carriage rose and 

10 sunk on its long springs with peculiar stateliness of mo- 
tion. The very horses champed their bits, arched their 
necks, and glanced their eyes more proudly than common 
horses ; either because they had caught a little of the fam- 
ily feeling, or were reined up more tightly than ordinary. 

15 I could not but admire the style with which this splen- 
did pageant was brought up to the gate of the churchyard. 
There was a vast effect produced at the turning of an an- 
gle of the wall ; — a great smacking of the whip, straining 
and scrambling of horses, glistening of harness, and flash- 

20 ing of wheels through gravel. This was the moment of 
triumph and vainglory to the coachman. The horses 
were urged and checked until they were fretted into a 
foam. They threw out their feet in a prancing trot, dashing 
about pebbles at every step. The crowd of villagers saun- 

25 tering quietly to church, opened precipitately to the right 
and left, gaping in vacant admiration. On reaching the 
gate, the horses were pulled up with a suddenness that 
produced an immediate stop, and almost threw them on 
their haunches. 

1 In a manner befitting a prince. 



The Country Church 131 

There was an extraordinary hurry of the footman to 
alight, pull down the steps, and prepare everything for the 
descent on earth of this august family. The old citizen 
first emerged his round red face from out the door, look- 
ing about him with the pompous air of a man accustomed 5 
to rule on 'Change, and shake the Stock Market with a 
nod. His consort, a fine, fleshy, comfortable dame, fol- 
lowed him. There seemed, I must confess, but little pride 
in her composition. She was the picture of broad, honest, 
vulgar enjoyment. The world went well with her; and 10 
she liked the world. She had fine clothes, a fine house, a 
fine carriage, fine children, everything was fine about her : 
it was nothing but driving about, and visiting and feasting. 
Life was to her a perpetual revel ; it was one long Lord 
Mayor's day. . 15 

Two daughters succeeded to this goodly couple. They 
certainly were handsome ; but had a supercilious air, that 
chilled admiration, and disposed the spectator to be criti- 
cal. They were ultra-fashionable in dress ; and, though 
no one could deny the richness of their decorations, yet 20 
their appropriateness might be questioned amidst the sim- 
plicity of a country church. They descended loftily from 
the carriage, and moved up the line of peasantry with a 
step that seemed dainty of the soil it trod on. They cast 
an exclusive glance around, that passed coldly over the 25 
burly faces of the peasantry, until they met the eyes of 
the nobleman's family, when their countenances immedi- 
ately brightened into smiles, and they made the most pro- 
found and elegant courtesies, which were returned in a 
manner that showed they were but slight acquaintances. 30 



132 The Sketch-Book 

I must not forget the two sons of this aspiring citizen, 
who came to church in a dashing curricle, 1 with outriders. 2 
They were arrayed in the extremity of the mode, with all 
that pedantry of dress which marks the man of question- 
5 able pretensions to style. They kept entirely by them- 
selves, eying every one askance that came near them, as 
if measuring his claims to respectability .; yet they were 
without conversation, except the exchange of an occa- 
sional cant phrase. They even moved artificially; for their 

10 bodies, in compliance with the caprice of the day, had 
been disciplined into the absence of all ease and freedom. 
Art had done everything to accomplish them as men of 
fashion, but nature had denied them the nameless grace. 
They were vulgarly shaped, like men formed for the com- 

15 mon purposes of life, and had that air of supercilious 
assumption which is never seen in the true gentleman. 

I have been rather minute in drawing the pictures of 
these two families, because I considered them specimens 
of what is often to be met with in this country — the un- 

20 pretending great and the arrogant little. I have no respect 
for titled rank, unless it be accompanied with true nobility 
of soul ; but I have remarked in all countries where arti- 
ficial distinctions exist, that the very highest classes are 
always the most courteous and unassuming. Those who 

25 are well assured of their own standing are least apt to 
trespass on that of others ; whereas nothing is so offen- 
sive as the aspirings of vulgarity, which thinks to elevate 
itself by humiliating its neighbour. 

1 Two-horse, two-wheeled vehicle. 

2 Attendants on horseback. 






The Country Church 133 

As I have brought these families into contrast, I must 
notice their behaviour in church. That of the nobleman's 
family was quiet, serious, and attentive. Not that they 
appeared to have any fervour of devotion, but rather a 
respect for sacred things, and sacred places, inseparable 5 
from good breeding. The others, on the contrary, were 
in a perpetual flutter and whisper ; they betrayed a con- 
tinual consciousness of finery, and a sorry ambition of 
being the wonders of a rural congregation. 

The old gentleman was the only one really attentive to 10 
the service. He took the whole burden of family devo- 
tion upon himself, standing bolt upright, and uttering the 
responses with a loud voice that might be heard all over 
the church. It was evident that he was one of those 
thorough church and king men, who connect the idea of 15 
devotion and loyalty ; who consider the Deity, somehow 
or other, of the government party, and religion " a very 
excellent sort of thing that ought to be countenanced and 
kept up." 

When he joined so loudly in the service, it seemed 20 
more by way of example to the lower orders, to show 
them that, though so great and wealthy, he was not 
above being religious ; as I have seen a turtle-fed alder- 
man swallow publicly a basin of charity soup, smacking 
his lips at every mouthful, and pronouncing it " excellent 25 
food for the poor." 

When the service was at an end, I was curious to wit- 
ness the several exits of my groups. The young noble- 
men and their sisters, as the day was fine, preferred 
strolling home across the fields, chatting with the coun- 3° 



134 The Sketch-Book 

try people as they went. The others departed as they 
came, in grand parade. Again were the equipages 
wheeled up to the gate. There was again the smacking 
of whips, the clattering of hoofs, and the glittering of 
5 harness. The horses started off almost at a bound ; the 
villagers again hurried to right and left ; the wheels threw 
up a cloud of dust ; and the aspiring family was rapt out 
of sight in a whirlwind. 






WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

When I behold, with deep astonishment, 

To famous Westminster how there resorte 

Living in brasse or stoney monument, 

The princes and the worthies of all sorte : 

Doe not I see reformde nobilitie, 5 

Without contempt, or pride, or ostentation, 

And looke upon offenselesse majesty, 

Naked of pomp or earthly domination? 

And how a play-game of a painted stone 

Contents the quiet now and silent sprites, 10 

Whome all the world which late they stood upon 

Could not content or quench their appetites. 

Life is a frost of cold felicitie, 

And death the thaw of all our vanitie. 

— Christolero's Epigrams, by T. B. 1598. 15 

On one of those sober and rather melancholy days, in 
the latter part of Autumn, when the shadows of morning 
and evening almost mingle together, and throw a gloom 
over the decline of the year, I passed several hours in 
rambling about Westminster Abbey. There was some- 20 
thing congenial to the season in the mournful magnificence 
of the old pile ; and, as I passed its threshold, it seemed 
like stepping back into the regions of antiquity, and losing 
myself among the shades of former ages. 

I entered from the inner court of Westminster School, 25 
through a long, low, vaulted passage, that had an almost 

135 






136 The Sketch-Book 

subterranean look, being dimly lighted in one part by 
circular perforations in the massive walls. Through this 
dark avenue I had a distant view of the cloisters, with 
the figure of an old verger, in his black gown, moving 
5 along their shadowy vaults, and seeming like a spectre 
from one of the neighbouring tombs. The approach to 
the abbey through these gloomy monastic remains pre- 
pares the mind for its solemn contemplation. The 
cloisters still retain something of the quiet and seclusion 

10 of former days. The grey walls are discoloured by 
damps, and crumbling with age ; a coat of hoary moss 
has gathered over the inscriptions of the mural 1 monu- 
ments, and obscured the death's-heads, and other fune- 
real emblems. The sharp touches of the chisel are gone 

15 from the rich tracery of the arches ; the roses which 
adorned the keystones have lost their leafy beauty ; 
everything bears marks of the gradual dilapidations of 
time, which yet has something touching and pleasing in 
its very decay. 

20 The sun was pouring down a yellow autumnal ray 
into the square of the cloisters ; beaming upon a scanty 
plot of grass in the centre, and lighting up an angle of 
the vaulted passage with a kind of dusky splendour. 
From between the arcades, the eye glanced up to a bit 

25 of blue sky or a passing cloud, and beheld the sun-gilt 
pinnacles of the abbey towering into the azure heaven. 

As I paced the cloisters, sometimes contemplating this 
mingled picture of glory and decay, and sometimes en- 
deavouring to decipher the inscriptions on the tomb- 

1 Wall. 



Westminster Abbey 137 

stones, which formed the pavement beneath my feet, my 
eye was attracted to three figures, rudely carved in relief, 
but nearly worn away by the footsteps of many genera- 
tions. They were the effigies of three of the early 
abbots ; the epitaphs were entirely effaced ; the names 5 
alone remained, having no doubt been renewed in later 
times. (Vitalis Abbas. 1 1082, and Gislebertus Crispinus 
Abbas. 1 1 14, and Laurentius Abbas, n 76.) I remained 
some little while, musing over these casual relics of an- 
tiquity, thus left like wrecks upon this distant shore of 10 
time, telling no tale but that such beings had been, and 
had perished ; teaching no moral but the futility of that 
pride which hopes still to exact homage in its ashes, and 
to live in an inscription. A little longer, and even these 
faint records will be obliterated, and the monument will 15 
cease to be a memorial. Whilst I was yet looking down 
upon these gravestones, I was roused by the sound of the 
abbey clock, reverberating from buttress to buttress, and 
echoing among the cloisters. It is almost startling to 
hear this warning of departed time sounding among the 20 
tombs, and telling the lapse of the hour, which, like a 
billow, has rolled us onward towards the grave. I pur- 
sued my walk to an arched door opening to the interior 
of the abbey. On entering here, the magnitude of the 
building breaks fully upon the mind, contrasted with the 25 
vaults of the cloisters. The eyes gaze with wonder at 
clustered columns of gigantic dimensions, with arches 
springing from them to such an amazing height; and 
man wandering about their bases, shrunk into insignifl- 

1 Abbot. 



138 The Sketch-Book 

cance in comparison with his own handiwork. The spa- 
ciousness and gloom of this vast edifice produce a 
profound and mysterious awe. We step cautiously and 
softly about, as if fearful of disturbing the hallowed silence 
5 of the tomb ; while every footfall whispers along the 
walls, and chatters among the sepulchres, making us more 
sensible of the quiet we have interrupted. 

It seems as if the awful nature of the place presses down 
upon the soul, and hushes the beholder into noiseless 

10 reverence. We feel that we are surrounded by the con- 
gregated bones of the great men of past times, who have 
filled history with their deeds, and the earth with their 
renown. 

And yet it almost provokes a smile at the vanity of hu- 

15 man ambition, to see how they are crowded together and 
jostled in the dust ; what parsimony is observed in doling 
out a scanty nook, a gloomy corner, a little portion of earth, 
to those, whom, when alive, kingdoms could not satisfy ; 
and how many shapes, and forms, and artifices are devised 

20 to catch the casual notice of the passenger, and save from 
forgetfulness, for a few short years, a name which once 
aspired to occupy ages of the world's thought and admira- 
tion. 

I passed some time in Poet's Corner, which occupies an 

25 end of one of the transepts or cross aisles of the abbey. The 
monuments are generally simple ; for the lives of literary 
men afford no striking themes for the "sculptor. Shake- 
speare and Addison have statues erected to their memories ; 
but the greater part have busts, medallions, and some- 

30 times mere inscriptions. Notwithstanding the simplicity of 






Westminster Abbey 139 

these memorials, I have always observed that the visitors to 
the abbey remained longest about them. A kinder and 
fonder feeling takes place of that cold curiosity or vague 
admiration with which they gaze on the splendid monu- 
ments of the great and the heroic. They linger about 5 
these as about the tombs of friends and companions ; for 
indeed there is something of companionship between the 
author and the reader. Other men are known to poster- 
ity only through the medium of history, which is continu- 
ally growing faint and obscure ; but the intercourse between 10 
the author and his fellow-men is ever new, active, and im- 
mediate. He has lived for them more than for himself; 
he has sacrificed surrounding enjoyments, and shut him- 
self up from the delight of social life, that he might the 
more intimately commune with distant minds and distant 15 
ages. Well may the world cherish his renown ; for it has 
been purchased, not by deeds of violence and blood, but 
by the diligent dispensation of pleasure. Well may pos- 
terity be grateful to his memory; for he has left it an 
inheritance, not of empty names and sounding actions, but 20 
whole treasures of wisdom, bright gems of thought, and 
golden veins of language. 

From Poet's Corner I continued my stroll towards that 
part of the abbey which contains the sepulchres of the 
kings. I wandered among what once were chapels, but 25 
which are now occupied by the tombs and monuments 
of the great. At every turn I met with some illustrious 
name ; or the cognizance of some powerful house re- 
nowned in history. As the eye darts into these dusky 
chambers of death, it catches glimpses of quaint effigies ; 30 



140 The Sketch-Book 

some kneeling in niches, as if in devotion ; others stretched 
upon the tombs, with hands piously pressed together ; 
warriors in armour, as if reposing after battle ; prelates * 
with crosiers 2 and mitres 3 ; and nobles in robes and cor- 
5 onets, lying as it were in state. In glancing over this 
scene, so strangely populous, yet where every form is so 
still and silent, it seems almost as if we were treading a 
mansion of that fabled city, where every being had been 
suddenly transmuted into stone. 

10 I paused to contemplate a tomb on which lay the effigy 
of a knight in complete armour. A large buckler was on 
one arm ; the hands were pressed together in supplication 
upon the breast : the face was almost covered by the mo- 
rion 4 ; the legs were crossed in token of the warrior's hav- 

15 ing been engaged in the holy war. It was the tomb of a 
Crusader; of one of those military enthusiasts who so 
strangely mingled religion and romance, and whose ex- 
ploits form the connecting link between fact and fiction; 
between the history and the fairy tale. There is some- 

20 thing extremely picturesque in the tombs of these advent- 
urers, decorated as they are with rude armorial bearings 
and Gothic sculpture. They comport with the antiquated 
chapels in which they are generally found ; and in con- 
sidering them, the imagination is apt to kindle with the 

25 legendary associations, the romantic fiction, the chivalrous 
pomp and pageantry, which poetry has spread over the 
wars for the sepulchre of Christ. They are the relics of 

1 Bishops. 

2 Crosses, but often used by mistake for pastoral crooks. 

3 High, cleft, pointed headdress of bishops. 4 Helmet. 



Westminster Abbey 141 

times utterly gone by ; of beings passed from recollection ; 
of customs and manners with which ours have no affinity. 
They are like objects from some strange and distant land, 
of which we have no certain knowledge, and about which 
all our conceptions are vague and visionary. There is 5 
something extremely solemn and awful in those effigies on 
Gothic tombs, extended as if in the sleep of death, or 
in the supplication of the dying hour. They have an 
effect infinitely more impressive on my feelings than the 
fanciful attitudes, the overwrought conceits, and allegori- 10 
cal groups, which abound on modern monuments. I have 
been struck, also, with the superiority of many of the 
old sepulchral inscriptions. There was a noble way, in 
former times, of saying things simply, and yet saying 
them proudly ; and I do not know an epitaph that 15 
breathes a loftier consciousness of family worth and 
honourable lineage than one which affirms, of a noble 
house, that " all the brothers were brave, and all the 
sisters virtuous." 

In the opposite transept to Poet's Corner stands a 20 
monument which is among the most renowned achieve- 
ments of modern art ; but which to me appears horrible 
rather than sublime. It is the tomb of Mrs. Nightingale, 
by Roubillac. The bottom of the monument is repre- 
sented as throwing open its marble doors, and a sheeted 25 
skeleton is starting forth. The shroud is falling from 
his fleshless frame as he launches his dart at his vic- 
tim. She is sinking into her affrighted husband's arms, 
who strives, with vain and frantic effort, to avert the 
blow. The whole is executed with terrible truth and 3° 



142 The Sketch-Book 

spirit ; we almost fancy we hear the gibbering yell 
of triumph bursting from the distended jaws of the 
spectre. — But why should we thus seek to clothe death 
with unnecessary terrors, and to spread horrors round 
5 the tomb of those we love? The grave should be sur- 
rounded by everything that might inspire tenderness and 
veneration for the dead ; or that might win the living 
to virtue. It is the place, not of disgust and dismay, 
but of sorrow and meditation. 

10 While wandering about those gloomy vaults and silent 
aisles, studying the records of the dead, the sound of 
busy existence from without occasionally reaches the ear ; 
— the rumbling of the passing equipage ; the murmur 
of the multitude ; or perhaps the light laugh of pleasure. 

*5 The contrast is striking with the deathlike repose around : 
and it has a strange effect upon the feelings, thus to hear 
the surges of active life hurrying along, and beating 
against the very walls of the sepulchre. 

I continued in this way to move from tomb to tomb, 

20 and from chapel to chapel. The day was gradually wear- 
ing away ; the distant tread of loiterers about the abbey 
grew less and less frequent ; the sweet-tongued bell was 
summoning to evening prayers ; and I saw at a distance the 
choristers, in their white surplices, crossing the aisle and 

25 entering the choir. I stood before the entrance to Henry 
the Seventh's chapel. A flight of steps lead up to it, through 
a deep and gloomy, but magnificent arch. Great gates of 
brass, richly and delicately wrought, turn heavily upon 
their hinges, as if proudly reluctant to admit the feet of 

30 common mortals into this most gorgeous of sepulchres. 



Westminster Abbey 143 

On entering, the eye is astonished by the pomp of 
architecture, and the elaborate beauty of sculptured detail. 
The very walls are wrought into universal ornament, in- 
crusted with tracery, and scooped into niches, crowded 
with the statues of saints and martyrs. Stone seems, by 5 
the cunning labour of the chisel, to have been robbed of 
its weight and density, suspended aloft, as if by magic, 
and the fretted 1 roof achieved with the wonderful minute- 
ness and airy security of a cobweb. 

Along the sides of the chapel are the lofty stalls 2 of 10 
the Knights of the Bath, richly carved of oak, though 
with the grotesque decorations of Gothic architecture. 
On the pinnacles of the stalls are affixed the helmets and 
crests of the knights, with their scarfs and swords ; and 
above them are suspended their banners, emblazoned 15 
with armorial bearings, and contrasting the splendour of 
gold and purple and crimson with the cold grey fretwork 
of the roof. In the midst of this grand mausoleum 
stands the sepulchre of its founder, — his effigy, with that 
of his queen, extended on a sumptuous tomb, and the 20 
whole surrounded by a superbly wrought brazen railing. 

There is a sad dreariness in this magnificence ; this 
strange mixture of tombs and trophies ; these emblems 
of living and aspiring ambition, close beside mementos 
which show the dust and oblivion in which all must sooner 25 
or later terminate. Nothing impresses the mind with a 
deeper feeling of loneliness than to tread the silent and 
deserted scene of former throng and pageant. On look- 
ing round on the vacant stalls of the knights and their 
1 Intricately carved. 2 Seats. 



144 The Sketch-Book 

esquires, and on the rows of dusty but gorgeous banners 
that were once borne before them, my imagination con- 
jured up the scene when this hall was bright with 
the valour and beauty of the land ; glittering with the 
5 splendour of jewelled rank and military array ; alive 
with the tread of many feet and the hum of an admir- 
ing multitude. All had passed away; the silence of 
death had settled again upon the place, interrupted 
only by the casual chirping of birds, which had found 

10 their way into the chapel, and built their nests among 
its friezes and pendants — sure signs of solitariness and 
desertion. 

When I read the names inscribed on the banners, they 
were those of men scattered far and wide about the 

15 world ; some tossing upon distant seas ; some under arms 
in distant lands ; some mingling in the busy intrigues of 
courts and cabinets ; all seeking to deserve one more dis- 
tinction in this mansion of shadowy honours : the melan- 
choly reward of a monument. 

20 Two small aisles on each side of this chapel present a 
touching instance of the equality of the grave ; which 
brings down the oppressor to a level with the oppressed, 
and mingles the dust of the bitterest enemies together. 
In one is the sepulchre of the haughty Elizabeth ; in the 

25 other is that of her victim, the lovely and unfortunate 
Mary. Not an hour in the day but some ejaculation of 
pity is uttered over the fate of the latter, mingled with in- 
dignation at her oppressor. The walls of Elizabeth's 
sepulchre continually echo with the sighs of sympathy 

30 heaved at the grave of her rival. 



Westminster Abbey 145 

A peculiar melancholy reigns over the aisle where 
Mary lies buried. The light struggles dimly through 
windows darkened by dust. The greater part of the 
place is in deep shadow, and the walls are stained and 
tinted by time and weather. A marble figure of Mary is 5 
stretched upon the tomb, round which is an iron railing, 
much corroded, bearing her national emblem — the 
thistle. I was weary with wandering, and sat down to 
rest myself by the monument, revolving in my mind the 
chequered and disastrous story of poor Mary. 10 

The sound of casual footsteps had ceased from the 
abbey. I could only hear, now and then, the distant 
voice of the priest repeating the evening service, and the 
faint responses of the choir ; these paused for a time, and 
all was hushed. The stillness, the desertion and obscurity 15 
that were gradually prevailing around, gave a deeper and 
more solemn interest to the place. 

For in the silent grave no conversation, 

No joyful tread of friends, no voice of lovers, 

No careful father's counsel — nothing's heard, 20 

For nothing is, but all oblivion, 

Dust, and an endless darkness. 

Suddenly the notes of the deep-labouring organ burst 
upon the ear, falling with doubled and redoubled in- 
tensity, and rolling, as it were, huge billows of sound. 25 
How well do their volume and grandeur accord with 
this mighty building ! With what pomp do they swell 
through its vast vaults, and breathe their awful harmony 
through these caves of death, and make the silent sepul- 
chre vocal ! — And now they rise in triumph and accla- 30 

THE SKETCH BOOK IO 



146 The Sketch-Book 

mation, heaving higher and higher their accordant notes, 
and piling sound on sound. — And now they pause, and 
the soft voices of the choir break out into sweet gushes 
of melody ; they soar aloft, and warble along the roof, 
5 and seem to play about these lofty vaults like the pure 
airs of heaven. Again the pealing organ heaves its 
thrilling thunders, compressing air into music, and roll- 
ing it forth upon the soul. What long-drawn cadences ! 
What solemn sweeping concords ! It grows more and 

10 more dense and powerful — it fills the vast pile, and 
seems to jar the very walls — the ear is stunned — the 
senses are overwhelmed. And now it is winding up in 
full jubilee — it is rising from the earth to heaven — the 
very soul seems rapt away and floated upwards on this 

15 swelling tide of harmony ! 

I sat for some time lost in that kind of reverie which 
a strain of music is apt sometimes to inspire : the 
shadows of evening were gradually thickening round 
me ; the monuments began to cast deeper and deeper 

20 gloom : and the distant clock again gave token of the 
slowly waning day. 

I rose and prepared to leave the abbey. As I de- 
scended the flight of steps which lead into the body of 
the building, my eye was caught by the shrine of Edward 

25 the Confessor, and I ascended the small staircase that 

* conducts to it, to take from thence a general survey of 
this wilderness of tombs. The shrine is elevated upon 
a kind of platform, and close around it are the sepulchres 
of various kings and queens. From this eminence the 

30 eye looks down between pillars and funeral trophies to 



Westminster Abbey 147 

the chapels and chambers below, crowded with tombs, 
— where warriors, prelates, courtiers, and statesmen lie 
mouldering in their "beds of darkness." Close by me 
stood the great chair of coronation, rudely carved of 
oak, in the barbarous taste of a remote and Gothic age. 5 
The scene seemed almost as if contrived, with theatrical 
artifice, to produce an effect upon the beholder. Here 
was a type of the beginning and the end of human pomp 
and power; here it was literally but a step from the 
throne to the sepulchre. Would not one think that 10 
these incongruous mementos had been gathered together 
as a lesson to living greatness ? — to show it, even in the 
moment of its proudest exaltation, the neglect and dis- 
honour to which it must soon arrive; how soon that 
crown which encircles its brow must pass away, and it 15 
must lie down in the dust and disgraces of the tomb, 
and be trampled upon by the feet of the meanest of the 
multitude. For, strange to tell, even the grave is here 
no longer a sanctuary. There is a shocking levity in 
some natures, which leads them to sport with awful and 20 
hallowed things ; and there are base minds, which de- 
light to revenge on the illustrious dead the f abject homage 
and grovelling servility which they pay to the living. 
The coffin of Edward the Confessor has been broken 
open, and his remains despoiled of their funereal orna- 25 
ments; the sceptre has been stolen from the hand of 
the imperious Elizabeth, and the effigy of Henry the 
Fifth lies headless. Not a royal monument but bears 
some proof how false and fugitive is the homage of 
mankind. Some are plundered ; some mutilated ; some 30 



148 The Sketch-Book 

covered with ribaldry and insult, — all more or less 
outraged and dishonoured ! 

The last beams of day were now faintly streaming 
through the painted windows in high vaults above me ; 
5 the lower parts of the abbey were already wrapped in 
the obscurity of twilight. The chapels and aisles grew 
darker and darker. The effigies of the kings faded into 
shadows ; the marble figures of the monuments assumed 
strange shapes in the uncertain light ; the evening breeze v 

10 crept through the aisles like the cold breath of the grave ; 
and even the distant footfall of a verger, traversing the 
Poet's Corner, had something strange and dreary in its 
sound. I slowly retraced my morning's walk, and as I 
passed out at the portal of the cloisters, the door, clos- 

i5ing with a jarring noise behind me, filled the whole 
building with echoes. 

I endeavoured to form some arrangement in my mind 
of the objects I had been contemplating, but found they 
were already fallen into indistinctness and confusion. 

20 Names, inscriptions, trophies, had all become con- 
founded in my recollection, though I had scarcely taken 
my foot from off the threshold. What, thought I, is this 
vast assemblage of sepulchres but a treasury of humilia- 
tion ; a huge pile of reiterated homilies on the emptiness 

25 of renown, and the certainty of oblivion ! It is, indeed, 
the empire of death — his great shadowy palace, where 
he sits in state, mocking at the relics of human glory, 
and spreading dust and forgetfulness on the monuments 
of princes. How idle a boast, after all, is the immortality 

30 of a name. Time is ever silently turning over his pages ; 



Westminster Abbey 149 

we are too much engrossed by the story of the present, to 
think of the characters and anecdotes that gave interest 
to the past ; and each age is a volume thrown aside to 
be speedily forgotten. The idol of to-day pushes the 
hero of yesterday out of our recollection ; and will, in 5 
turn, be supplanted by his successor of to-morrow. " Our 
fathers," says Sir Thomas Browne, " find their graves in 
our short memories, and sadly tell us how we may be 
buried in our survivors." History fades into fable ; fact 
becomes clouded with doubt and controversy ; the in- 10 
scription moulders from the tablet ; the statue falls from 
the pedestal. Columns, arches, pyramids, what are they 
but heaps of sand ; and their epitaphs, but characters 
written in the dust? What is the security of a tomb, 
or the perpetuity of an embalmment ! The remains of 15 
Alexander the Great have been scattered to the wind, and 
his empty sarcophagus is now the mere curiosity of a 
museum. "The Egyptian mummies, which Cambyses 
or time hath spared, avarice now consumeth ; Mizraim 
cures wounds, and Pharaoh is sold for balsams." * 20 

What then is to insure this pile which now towers above 
me from sharing the fate of mightier mausoleums ? The 
time must come when its gilded vaults, which now spring 
so loftily, shall lie in rubbish beneath the feet; when, in- 
stead of the sound of melody and praise, the wind shall 25 
whistle through the broken arches, and the owl hoot from 
the shattered tower, — when the garish sunbeam shall 
break into these gloomy mansions of death, and the ivy 
twine round the fallen column ; and the foxglove hang its 
* Sir T. Browne. 



150 The Sketch-Book 

blossoms about the nameless urn, as if in mockery of the 
dead. Thus man passes away ; his name perishes from 
record and recollection ; his history is a tale that is 
told, and his very monument becomes a ruin.* 

* For Irving's notes on Westminster Abbey, see p. 300. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

A COLLOQUY IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

I know that all beneath the moon decays, 
And what by mortals in this world is brought, 
In time's great period shall return to nought. 

I know that all the muse's heavenly lays, 
With toil of sprite which are so dearly bought, 5 

As idle sounds, of few or none are sought, 

That there is nothing lighter than mere praise. 

— Drummond of Hawthornden. 

There are certain half-dreaming moods of mind, in 
which we naturally steal away from noise and glare, and 10 
seek some quiet haunt, where we may indulge our reveries 
and build our air castles undisturbed. In such a mood 
I was loitering about the old grey cloisters of Westminster 
Abbey, enjoying that luxury of wandering thought which 
one is apt to dignify with the name of reflection ; when 15 
suddenly an interruption of madcap boys from Westmin- 
ster School, playing at football, broke in upon the monas- 
tic stillness of the place, making the vaulted passages and 
mouldering tombs echo with their merriment. I sought 
to take refuge from their noise by penetrating still deeper 20 
into the solitudes of the pile, and applied to one of the 
vergers for admission to the library. He conducted me 
through a portal rich with the crumbling sculpture of 
former ages, which opened upon a gloomy passage lead- 

151 



152 The Sketch-Book 

ing to the chapter-house * and the chamber in which 
Doomsday Book is deposited. Just within the passage 
is a small door on the left. To this the verger applied a 
key ; it was double locked, and opened with some diffi- 
Sculty, as if seldom used. We now ascended a dark 
narrow staircase, and, passing through a second door, 
entered the library. 

I found myself in a lofty antique hall, the roof sup- 
ported by massive joists of old English oak. It was 

10 soberly lighted by a row of Gothic windows at a consider- 
able height from the floor, and which apparently opened 
upon the roofs of the cloisters. An ancient picture of 
some reverend dignitary of the church in his robes hung 
over the fireplace. Around the hall and in a small gallery 

15 were the books, arranged in carved oaken cases. They 
consisted principally of old polemical 2 writers, and were 
much more worn by time than use. In the centre of the 
library was a solitary table with two or three books on it, 
an inkstand without ink, and a few pens parched by long 

20 disuse. The place seemed fitted for quiet study and 
profound meditation. It was buried deep among the 
massive walls of the abbey, and shut up from the tumult 
of the world. I could only hear now and then the shouts 
of the school-boys faintly swelling from the cloisters, and 

25 the sound of a bell tolling for prayers, echoing soberly 
along the roofs of the abbey. By degrees the shouts of 
merriment grew fainter and fainter, and at length died 
away ; the bell ceased to toll, and a profound silence 
reigned through the dusky hall. 

1 Assembly room of the priests. 2 Disputatious. 



The Mutability of Literature 153 

I had taken down a little thick quarto, curiously bound 
in parchment, with brass clasps, and seated myself at the 
table in a venerable elbow-chair. Instead of reading, 
however, I was beguiled by the solemn monastic air, and 
lifeless quiet of the place, into a train of musing. As 1 5 
looked around upon the old volumes in their mouldering 
covers, thus ranged on the shelves, and apparently never 
disturbed in their repose, I could not but consider the 
library a kind of literary catacomb, where authors, like 
mummies, are piously entombed, and left to blacken 10 
and moulder in dusty oblivion. 

How much, thought I, has each of these volumes, now 
thrust aside with such indifference, cost some aching 
head ! how many weary days ! how many sleepless 
nights ! How have their authors buried themselves in 15 
the solitude of cells and cloisters ; shut themselves up 
from the face of man, and the still more blessed face of 
nature ; and devoted themselves to painful research and 
intense reflection ! And all for what ? to occupy an inch 
of dusty shelf, — to have the title of their works read 20 
now and then in a future age, by some drowsy church- 
man or casual straggler like myself ; and in another age 
to be lost, even to remembrance. Such is the amount 
of this boasted immortality. A mere temporary rumour, 
a local sound; like the tone of that bell which has just 25 
tolled among these towers, filling the ear for a moment 
— lingering transiently in echo — and then passing away 
like a thing that was not ! 

While I sat half murmuring, half meditating these un- 
profitable speculations, with my head resting on my hand, 30 



154 The Sketch-Book 

I was thrumming with the other hand upon the quarto, 
until I accidentally loosened the clasps ; when, to my 
utter astonishment, the little book gave two or three 
yawns, like one awaking from a deep sleep ; then a husky 
5 hem ; and at length began to talk. At first its voice was 
very hoarse and broken, being much troubled by a cob- 
web which some studious spider had woven across it ; and 
having probably contracted a cold from long exposure to 
the chills and damps of the abbey. In a short time, how- 

10 ever, it became more distinct, and I soon found it an ex- 
ceedingly fluent, conversable little tome. 1 Its language, 
to be sure, was rather quaint and obsolete, and its pro- 
nunciation, what, in the present day, would be deemed 
barbarous ; but I shall endeavour, as far as I am able, to 

15 render it in modern parlance. 

It began with railings about the neglect of the world — 
about merit being suffered to languish in obscurity, and 
other such commonplace topics of literary repining, and 
complained bitterly that it had not been opened for more 

20 than two centuries. That the dean only looked now and 
then into the library, sometimes took down a volume or 
two, trifled with them for a few moments, and then re- 
turned them to their shelves. " What a plague do they 
mean," said the little quarto, which I began to perceive 

25 was somewhat choleric, "what a plague do they mean by 
keeping several thousand volumes of us shut up here, and 
watched by a set of old vergers, 2 like so many beauties in 
a harem, merely to be looked at now and then by the 
dean? Books were written to give pleasure and to be 
1 Volume. 2 Servants in a church. 






The Mutability of Literature 155 

enjoyed ; and I would have a rule passed that the dean 
should pay each of us a visit at least once a year ; or, if 
he is not equal to the task, let them once in a while turn 
loose the whole School of Westminster among us, that at 
any rate we may now and then have an airing." 5 

"Softly, my worthy friend," replied I; "you are not 
aware how much better you are off than most books of 
your generation. By being stored away in this ancient 
library, you are like the treasured remains of those 
saints and monarchs which lie enshrined in the adjoining 10 
chapels ; while the remains of your contemporary mor- 
tals, left to the ordinary course of nature, have long since 
returned to dust." 

"Sir," said the little tome, ruffling his leaves and look- 
ing big, " I was written for all the world, not for the 15 
bookworms of an abbey. I was intended to circulate 
from hand to hand, like other great contemporary works ; 
but here have I been clasped up for more than two cen- 
turies, and might have silently fallen a prey to these 
worms that are playing the very vengeance with my in- 20 
testines, if you had not by chance given me an opportu- 
nity of uttering a few last words before I go to pieces." 

" My good friend," rejoined I, " had you been left to 
the circulation of which you speak, you would long ere 
this have been no more. To judge from your physiog- 25 
nomy, you are now well stricken in years : very few of 
your contemporaries can be at present in existence ; and 
those few owe their longevity to being immured like 
yourself in old libraries ; which, suffer me to add, instead 
of likening to harems, you might more properly and 3° 



156 The Sketch-Book 

gratefully have compared to those infirmaries attached to 
religious establishments, for the benefit of the old and 
decrepit, and where, by quiet fostering and no employ- 
ment, they often endure to an amazingly good-for-noth- 
5ing old age. You talk of your contemporaries as if in 
circulation, — where do we meet with their works? What 
do we hear of Robert Groteste, of Lincoln? No one 
could have toiled harder than he for immortality. He is 
said to have written nearly two hundred volumes. He 

10 built, as it were, a pyramid of books to perpetuate his 
name ; but, alas ! the pyramid has long since fallen, and 
only a few fragments are scattered in various libraries, 
where they are scarcely disturbed even by the antiqua- 
rian. What do we hear of Giraldus Cambrensis, the his- 

15 torian, antiquary, philosopher, theologian, and poet ? He 
declined two bishoprics, that he might shut himself up 
and write for posterity : but posterity never inquires after 
his labours. What of Henry of Huntingdon, who, besides 
a learned history of England, wrote a treatise on the con- 

20 tempt of the world, which the world has revenged by 
forgetting him? What is quoted of Joseph of Exeter, 
styled the miracle of his age in classical composition? Of 
his three great heroic poems one is lost forever, except- 
ing a mere fragment ; the others are known only to a few 

25 of the curious in literature ; and as to his love verses and 
epigrams, they have entirely disappeared. What is in cur- 
rent use of John Wallis, the Franciscan, who acquired the 
name of the tree of life? Of William of Malmsbury; — 
of Simeon of Durham ; — of Benedict of Peterborough ; 

30 — of John Hanvill of St. Albans; — of " 



The Mutability of Literature 157 

" Prithee, friend/' cried the quarto, in a testy tone, 
" how old do you think me? You are talking of authors 
that lived long before my time, and wrote either in Latin 
or French, so that they in a manner expatriated them- 
selves, and deserved to be forgotten ; * but I, sir, was 5 
ushered into the world from the press of the renowned 
Wynkyn de Worde. I was written in my own native 
tongue, at a time when the language had become fixed ; 
and indeed I was considered a model of pure and 
elegant English." . 10 

(I should observe that these remarks were couched in 
such intolerably antiquated terms, that I have had infinite 
difficulty in rendering them into modern phraseology.) 

" I cry your mercy," said I, " for mistaking your age ; 
but it matters little : almost all the writers of your time have 15 
likewise passed into forgetfulness ; and De Worde's pub- 
lications are mere literary rarities among book-collectors. 
The purity and stability of language, too, on which you 
found your claims to perpetuity, have been the fallacious 
dependence of authors of every age, even back to the 20 
times of the worthy Robert of Gloucester, who wrote his 
history in rhymes of mongrel Saxon. | Even now many 

* In Latin and French hath many soueraine wittes had great 
delyte to endite, and have many noble thinges fulfilde, but certes 
there ben some that speaken their poisye in French, of which 25 
speche the Frenchmen have as good a fantasye as we have in 
hearying of Frenchmen's Englishe. — Chaucer's Testament of Love, 

t Holinshed, in his Chronicle, observes, " afterwards, also by 
deligent travell of Geffry Chaucer and of John Gowre, in the time 
of Richard the Second, and after them of John Scogan and John 30 
Lydgate, monke of Berrie, our said toong was brought to an excel- 



158 The Sketch-Book 

talk of Spenser's 'Well of pure English undefilecT as if 
the language ever sprang from a well or fountain-head, 
and was not rather a mere confluence of various tongues, 
perpetually subject to changes and intermixtures. It is 
5 this which has made English literature so extremely 
mutable, and the reputation built upon it so fleeting. 
Unless thought can be committed to something more 
permanent and unchangeable than such a medium, even 
thought must share the fate of everything else, and fall 

10 into decay. This should serve as a check upon the 
vanity and exultation of the most popular writer. He 
finds the language in which he has embarked his fame 
gradually altering, and subject to the dilapidations of 
time and the caprice of fashion. He looks back and 

15 beholds the early authors of his country, once the fa- 
vourites of their day, supplanted by modern writers. A 
few short ages have covered them with obscurity, and 
their merits can only be relished by the quaint taste of 
the book-worm. And such, he anticipates, will be the 

20 fate of his own work, which, however it may be admired 
in its day, and held up as a model of purity, will in the 
course of years grow antiquated and obsolete ; until it shall 
become almost as unintelligible in its native land as an 
Egyptian obelisk, or one of those Runic 1 inscriptions said 

25 lent passe, notwithstanding that it never came unto the type of 
perfection until the time of Queen Elizabeth, wherein John Jewell, 
Bishop of Sarum, John Fox, and sundrie learned and excellent 
writers, have fully accomplished the ornature of the same, to their 
great praise and immortal commendation." 



1 Ancient Scandinavian writing. 



The Mutability of Literature 159 

to exist in the deserts of Tartary. I declare," added 
I, with some emotion, " when I contemplate a modern 
library, filled with new works, in all the bravery of rich 
gilding and binding, I feel disposed to sit down and 
weep ; like the good Xerxes, when he surveyed his army, 5 
pranked out 1 in all the splendour of military array, and 
reflected that in one hundred years not one of them 
would be in existence ! " 

"Ah/' said the little quarto, with a heavy sigh, "I see 
how it is ; these modern scribblers have superseded all 10 
the good old authors. I suppose nothing is read nowa- 
days but Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, Sackville's stately 
plays, and Mirror for Magistrates, or the fine-spun 
euphuisms of the ' unparalleled John Lyly.' " 

" There you are again mistaken/' said I ; " the writers 15 
whom you suppose in vogue, because they happened to 
be so when you were last in circulation, have long since had 
their day. Sir Philip Sydney's Arcadia, the immortality 
of which was so fondly predicted by his admirers,* 
and which, in truth, is full of noble thoughts, delicate 20 
images, and graceful turns of language, is now scarcely 

* " Live ever sweete booke; the simple image of his gentle witt, 
and the golden-pillar of his noble courage; and ever notify unto 
the world that thy writer was the secretary of eloquence, the 
breath of the muses, the honey-bee of the daintyest flowers of witt 25 
and arte, the pith of morall and intellectual virtues, the arme of 
Bellona in the field, the tonge of Suada in the chamber, the sprite 
of Practise in esse, and the paragon of excellency in print." 

— Harvey's Pierce's Supererogation, 



1 Bedecked. 



160 The Sketch-Book 

ever mentioned. Sackville has strutted into obscurity; 
and even Lyly, though his writings were once the delight 
of a court, and apparently perpetuated by a proverb, is 
now scarcely known even by name. A whole crowd of 
5 authors who wrote and wrangled at the time, have like- 
wise gone down, with all their writings and their con- 
troversies. Wave after wave of succeeding literature 
has rolled over them, until they are buried so deep, 
that it is only now and then that some industrious diver 

10 after fragments of antiquity brings up a specimen for the 
gratification of the curious. 

" For my part," I continued, " I consider this mutability 
of language a wise precaution of Providence for the bene- 
fit of the world at large, and of authors in particular. To 

15 reason from analogy, we daily behold the varied and beau- 
tiful tribes of vegetables springing up, flourishing, adorning 
the fields for a short time, and then fading into dust, to 
make way for their successors. Were not this the case, 
the fecundity 1 of nature would be a grievance instead of 

20 a blessing. The earth would groan with rank and excessive 
vegetation, and its surface become a tangled wilderness. 
In like manner the works of genius and learning decline, 
and make way for subsequent productions. Language 
gradually varies, and with it fade away the writings of 

25 authors who have flourished their allotted time ; otherwise, 
the creative powers of genius would overstock the world, 
and the mind would be completely bewildered in the end- 
less mazes of literature. Formerly there were some re- 
straints on this excessive multiplication. Works had to 
1 Fertility. 






The Mutability of Literature 161 

be transcribed by hand, which was a slow and laborious 
operation ; they were written either on parchment, which 
was expensive, so that one work was often erased to make 
way for another ; or on papyrus, 1 which was fragile and 
extremely perishable. Authorship was a limited and un- 5 
profitable craft, pursued chiefly by monks in the leisure 
and solitude of their cloisters. The accumulation of manu- 
scripts was slow and costly, and confined almost entirely 
to monasteries. To these circumstances it may, in some 
measure, be owing that we have not been inundated by 10 
the intellect of antiquity ; that the fountains of thought 
have not been broken up and modern genius drowned in the 
deluge. But the inventions of paper and the press have 
put an end to all these restraints. They have made every 
one a writer, and enabled every mind to pour itself into 15 
print, and diffuse itself over the whole intellectual world. 
The consequences are alarming. The stream of literature 
has swollen into a torrent — augmented into a river — 
expanded into a sea. A few centuries since, five or six 
hundred manuscripts constituted a great library; but 20 
what would you say to libraries such as actually exist con- 
taining three or four hundred thousand volumes ; legions 
of authors at the same time busy ; and the press going 
on with activity, to double and quadruple the number? 
Unless some unforeseen mortality should break out among 25 
the progeny of the muse, now that she has become so 
prolific, I tremble for posterity. I fear the mere fluctuation 
of language will not be sufficient. Criticism may do much. 
It increases with the increase of literature, and resembles 
1 Ancient form of paper. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — II 



1 62 The Sketch-Book 

one of those salutary checks on population spoken of 
by economists. All possible encouragement, therefore, 
should be given to the growth of critics, good or bad. 
But I fear all will be in vain ; let criticism do what it may, 
5 writers will write, printers will print, and the world will 
inevitably be overstocked with good books. It will soon 
be the employment of a lifetime merely to learn their 
names. Many a man of passable information, at the 
present day, reads scarcely anything but reviews ; and 

10 before long a man of erudition will be little better than 
a mere walking catalogue." 

" My very good sir,' 7 said the little quarto, yawning 
most drearily in my face, " excuse my interrupting you, 
but I perceive you are rather given to prose. 1 I would 

15 ask the fate of an author who was making some noise just 
as I left the world. His reputation, however, was consid- 
ered quite temporary. The learned shook their heads at 
him, for he was a poor half-educated varlet, that knew 
little of Latin, and nothing of Greek, and had been obliged 

20 to run the country for deer-stealing. I think his name 

was Shakespeare. I presume he soon sunk into oblivion." 

"On the contrary," said I, " it is owing to that very 

man that the literature of his period has experienced a 

duration beyond the ordinary term of English literature. 

25 There rise authors now and then, who seem proof against 
the mutability of language, because they have rooted 
themselves in the unchanging principles of human nature. 
They are like gigantic trees that we sometimes see on 
the banks of a stream ; which, by their vast and deep 
1 Prosing. 



The Mutability of Literature 163 

roots, penetrating through the mere surface, and laying 
hold on the very foundations of the earth, preserve the 
soil around them from being swept away by the ever- 
flowing current, and hold up many a neighbouring plant, 
and, perhaps, worthless weed, to perpetuity. Such is the 5 
case with Shakespeare, whom we behold defying the 
encroachments of time, retaining in modern use the 
language and literature of his day, and giving duration 
to many an indifferent author, merely from having flour- 
ished in his vicinity. But even he, I grieve to say, is 10 
gradually assuming the tint of age, and his whole form is 
overrun by a profusion of commentators, who, like clam- 
bering vines and creepers, almost bury the noble plant 
that upholds them." 

Here the little quarto began to heave his sides and 15 
chuckle, until at length he broke out- in a plethoric fit 
of laughter that had wellnigh choked him, by reason of 
his excessive corpulency. "Mighty well!" cried he, as 
soon as he could recover breath, " mighty well ! and so 
you would persuade me that the literature of an age is to 20 
be perpetuated by a vagabond deer-stealer ! by a man 
without learning ; by a poet, forsooth — a poet ! " And 
here he wheezed forth another fit of laughter. 

I confess that I felt somewhat nettled at this rudeness 
which, however, I pardoned on account of his having 25 
flourished in a less polished age. I determined, never- 
theless, not to give up my point. 

" Yes," resumed I, positively, " a poet ; for of all writers 
he has the best chance for immortality. Others may 
write from the head, but he writes from the heart, and 30 



164 The Sketch-Book 

the heart will always understand him. He is the faithful 
portrayer of nature, whose features are always the same, 
and always interesting. Prose writers are voluminous and 
unwieldy ; their pages are crowded with commonplaces, 

5 and their thoughts expanded into tediousness. But with 
the true poet everything is terse, touching, or brilliant. 
He gives the choicest thoughts in the choicest language. 
He illustrates them by everything that he sees most 
striking in nature and art. He enriches them by pictures 

10 of human life, such as it is passing before him. His 
writings, therefore, contain the spirit, the aroma, if I may 
use the phrase, of the age in which he lives. They are 
caskets which enclose within a small compass the wealth 
of the language, — its family jewels, which are thus 

15 transmitted in a portable form to posterity. The setting 
may occasionally be antiquated, and require now and then 
to be renewed, as in the case of Chaucer ; but the brilliancy 
and intrinsic value of the gems continue unaltered. Cast 
a look back over the long reach of literary history. What 

20 vast valleys of dullness, filled with monkish legends and 
academical controversies ! what bogs of theological specu- 
lations ! what dreary wastes of metaphysics ! Here and 
there only do we behold the heaven-illuminated bards, 
elevated like beacons on their widely separate heights, to 

25 transmit the pure light of poetical intelligence from age 
to age." * 

* Thorow earth and waters deepe, 
The pen by skill doth passe : 
And featly nyps the worldes abuse, 
And shoes us in a glasse, 



The Mutability of Literature 165 

I was just about to launch forth into eulogiums upon 
the poets of the day, when the sudden opening of the 
door caused me to turn my head. It was the verger, who 
came to inform me that it was time to close the library. 
I sought to have a parting word with the quarto, but the 5 
worthy little tome was silent ; the clasps were closed ; 
and it looked perfectly unconscious of all that had 
passed. I have been to the library two or three times 
since, and have endeavoured to draw it into further 
conversation, but in vain ; and whether all this rambling 10 
colloquy actually took place, or whether it was another 
of those odd day-dreams to which I am subject, I have 
never to this moment been able to discover. 



The vertu and the vice 

Of every wight alyve; j$ 

The honey comb that bee doth make 

Is not so sweet in hyve, 
As are the golden leves 

That drop from poet's head ! 
"Which doth surmount our common talke 20 

As farre as dross doth lead. 

— Churchyard. 



THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

" If that severe doom * of Synesius be true, — * It is a greater 
offence to steal dead men's labour, than their clothes,' what shall 
become of most writers ? " 

— Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

5 I have often wondered at the extreme fecundity of 
the press, and how it comes to pass that so many heads, 
on which nature seemed to have inflicted the curse of 
barrenness, should teem with voluminous productions. 
As a man travels on, however, in the journey of life, his 

io objects of wonder daily diminish, and he is continually 
finding out some very simple cause for some great matter 
of marvel. Thus have I chanced, in my peregrinations 
about this great metropolis, to blunder upon a scene 
which unfolded to me some of the mysteries of the book- 

15 making craft, and at once put an end to my aston- 
ishment. 

I was one summer's day loitering through the great 
saloons of the British Museum, with that listlessness 
with which one is apt to saunter about a museum in 

20 warm weather; sometimes lolling over the glass cases 
of minerals, sometimes studying the hieroglyphics on an 
Egyptian mummy, and sometimes trying, with nearly 
equal success, to comprehend the allegorical paintings 

1 Judgement. 
166 



The Art of Book-Making 167 

on the lofty ceilings. Whilst I was gazing about in this 
idle way, my attention was attracted to a distant door, 
at the end of a suite of apartments. It was closed, but 
every now and then it would open, and some strange- 
favoured being, generally clothed in black, would steal 5 
forth, and glide through the rooms, without noticing any 
of the surrounding objects. There was an air of mystery 
about this that piqued my languid curiosity, and I 
determined to attempt the passage of that strait, and to 
explore the unknown regions beyond. The door yielded 10 
to my hand, with that facility with which the portals of 
enchanted castles yield to the adventurous knight-errant. 1 
I found myself in a spacious chamber, surrounded with 
great cases of venerable books. Above the cases, and 
just under the cornice, were arranged a great number of 15 
black-looking portraits of ancient authors. About the 
room were placed long tables, with stands for reading 
and writing, at which sat many pale, studious personages, 
poring intently over dusty volumes, rummaging among 
mouldy manuscripts, and taking copious notes of their 20 
contents. A hushed stillness reigned through this mys- 
terious apartment, excepting that you might hear the 
racing of pens over sheets of paper, or occasionally the 
deep sigh of one of these sages, as he shifted his posi- 
tion to turn over the page of an old folio ; doubtless 25 
arising from that hollowness and flatulency incident to 
learned research. 

Now and then one of these personages would write 
something on a small slip of paper, and ring a bell, 
1 Wandering knight. 



1 68 The Sketch-Book 

whereupon a familiar * would appear, take the paper in 
profound silence, glide out of the room, and return 
shortly loaded with ponderous tomes, upon which the 
other would fall tooth and nail with famished voracity. 

5 1 had no longer a doubt that I had happened upon 
a body of magi, 2 deeply engaged in the study of 
occult sciences. The scene reminded me of an old 
Arabian tale, of a philosopher shut up in an en- 
chanted library, in the bosom of a mountain, which 

10 opened only once a year ; where he made the spirits 
of the place bring him books of all kinds of dark know- 
ledge, so that at the end of the year, when the magic 
portal once more swung open on its hinges, he issued 
forth so versed in forbidden lore, as to be able to soar 

15 above the heads of the multitude, and to control the 
powers of nature. 

My curiosity being now fully aroused, I whispered to 
one of the familiars, as he was about to leave the room, 
and begged an interpretation of the strange scene before 

20 me. A few words were sufficient for the purpose. 
I found that these mysterious personages, whom I 
had mistaken for magi, were principally authors, and 
in the very act of manufacturing books. I was, in 
fact, in the reading-room of the great British Library — 

25 an immense collection of volumes of all ages and lan- 
guages, many of which are now forgotten, and most 
of which are seldom read : one of the sequestered 
pools of obsolete literature, to which modern authors 
repair, and draw buckets full of classic lore, " pure Eng- 
1 Obedient spirit. 2 Sages. 



The Art of Book-Making 169 

lish, undefiled," wherewith to swell their own scanty rills 
of thought. 

Being now in possession of the secret, I sat down in a 
corner, and watched the process of this book-manufactory. 
I noticed one lean, bilious-looking wight, who sought none 5 
but the most worm-eaten volumes, printed in black-letter. 
He was evidently constructing some work of profound eru- 
dition, that would be purchased by every man who wished 
to be thought learned, placed upon a conspicuous shelf 
of his library, or laid open upon his table ; but never 10 
read. I observed him, now and then, draw a large frag- 
ment of biscuit out of his pocket, and gnaw; whether it 
was his dinner, or whether he was endeavouring to keep 
off that exhaustion of the stomach produced by much 
pondering over dry works, I leave to harder students than 15 
myself to determine. 

There was one dapper little gentleman in bright- 
coloured clothes, with a chirping, gossiping expression of 
countenance, who had all the appearance of an author on 
good terms with his bookseller. After considering him 20 
attentively, I recognized in him a diligent getter-up of 
miscellaneous works, which bustled off well with the trade. 
I was curious to see how he manufactured his wares. He 
made more stir and show of business than any of the 
others; dipping into various books, fluttering over the 25 
leaves of manuscripts, taking a morsel out of one, a morsel 
out of another, "line upon line, precept upon precept, 
here a little and there a little. " The contents of his book 
seemed to be as heterogeneous as those of the witches' 
caldron in Macbeth. It was here a finger and there a 30 



170 The Sketch-Book 

thumb, toe of frog and blindworm's sting, with his own 
gossip poured in like " baboon's blood," to make the 
medley "slab 1 and good." 

After all, thought I, may not this pilfering disposition 
5 be implanted in authors for wise purposes ; may it not 
be the way in which Providence has taken care that the 
seeds of knowledge and wisdom shall be preserved from 
age to age, in spite of the inevitable decay of the works 
in which they were first produced? We see that nature 

10 has wisely, though whimsically, provided for the convey- 
ance of seeds from clime to clime, in the maws of certain 
birds j so that animals, which, in themselves, are little 
better than carrion, and apparently the lawless plunderers 
of the orchard and the cornfield, are, in fact, nature's 

15 carriers to disperse and perpetuate her blessings. In 
like manner, the beauties and fine thoughts of 
ancient and obsolete authors are caught up by these 
flights of predatory 2 writers, and cast forth again to 
flourish and bear fruit in a remote and distant tract of 

20 time. Many of their works, also, undergo a kind of 
metempsychosis, 3 and spring up under new forms. What 
was formerly a ponderous history, revives in the shape 
of a romance — an old legend changes into a modern 
play — and a sober philosophical treatise furnishes the 

25 body for a whole series of bouncing and sparkling essays. 
Thus it is in the clearing of our American woodlands : 
where we burn down a forest of stately pines, a progeny 
of dwarf oaks start up in their place ; and we never see 

1 Thick, muddy. 2 Thieving. 

3 The passing of the soul, after death, to a new body. 



The Art of Book-Making 171 

the prostrate trunk of a tree mouldering into soil, but it 
gives birth to a whole tribe of fungi. 

Let us not, then, lament over the decay and oblivion 
into which ancient writers descend ; they do but submit 
to the great law of nature, which declares that all sub- 5 
lunary 1 shapes of matter shall be limited in their duration, 
but which decrees, also, that their elements shall never 
perish. Generation after generation, both in animal and 
vegetable life, passes away, but the vital principle is trans- 
mitted to posterity, and the species continue to flourish. 10 
Thus, also, do authors beget authors, and having produced 
a numerous progeny, in a good old age they sleep with 
their fathers, that is to say, with the authors who preceded 
them — and from whom they had stolen. 

Whilst I was indulging in these rambling fancies, I had 15 
leaned my head against a pile of reverend folios. Whether 
it was owing to the soporific emanations from these 
works ; or to the profound quiet of the room ; or to the 
lassitude arising from much wandering ; or to an unlucky 
habit of napping at improper times and places, with 20 
which I am grievously afflicted, so it was, that I fell into 
a doze. Still, however, my imagination continued busy, 
and indeed the same scene remained before my mind's 
eye, only a little changed in some of the details. I 
dreamt that the chamber was still decorated with the 25 
portraits of ancient authors, but that the number was in- 
creased. The long tables had disappeared, and, in place 
of the sage magi, I beheld a ragged, threadbare throng, 
such as may be seen plying about the great repository of 
1 Under the moon. 



172 The Sketch-Book 

cast-off clothes, Monmouth Street. Whenever they seized 
upon a book, by one of those incongruities common to 
dreams, methought it turned into a garment of foreign or 
antique fashion, with which they proceeded to equip them- 
5 selves. I noticed, however, that no one pretended to 
clothe himself from any particular suit, but took a sleeve 
from one, a cape from another, a skirt from a third, thus 
decking himself out piecemeal, while some of his orig- 
inal rags would peep out from among his borrowed finery. 

10 There was a portly, rosy, well-fed parson, whom I 
observed ogling several mouldy polemical writers through 
an eye-glass. He soon contrived to slip on the volumin- 
ous mantle of one of the old fathers, and, having purloined 
the grey beard of another, endeavoured to look exceed- 

15 ingly wise ; but the smirking commonplace of his counte- 
nance set at naught all the trappings of wisdom. One 
sickly-looking gentleman was busied embroidering a very 
flimsy garment with gold thread drawn out of several old 
court-dresses of the reign of Queen Elizabeth. Another 

20 had trimmed himself magnificently from an illuminated 
manuscript, had stuck a nosegay in his bosom, culled 
from The Paradise of Daintie Devices, and having put 
Sir Philip Sidney's hat on one side of his head, strutted off 
with an exquisite air of vulgar elegance. A third, who 

25 was but of puny dimensions, had bolstered himself out 
bravely with the spoils from several obscure tracts of 
philosophy, so that he had a very imposing front ; but he 
was lamentably tattered in rear, and I perceived that he 
had patched his small-clothes with scraps of parchment 

30 from a Latin author. 



The Art of Book-Making 173 

There were some well-dressed gentlemen, it is true, who 
only helped themselves to a gem or so, which sparkled 
among their own ornaments, without eclipsing them. 
Some too, seemed to contemplate the costumes of the old 
writers, merely to imbibe their principles of taste, and to 5 
catch their air and spirit ; but I grieve to say, that too many 
were apt to array themselves from top to toe in the 
patchwork manner I have mentioned. I shall not omit 
to speak of one genius, in drab breeches and gaiters, and 
an Arcadian hat, who had a violent propensity to the 10 
pastoral, but whose rural wanderings had been confined 
to the classic haunts of Primrose Hill, and the solitudes 
of the Regent's Park. He had decked himself in wreaths 
and ribbons from all the old pastoral poets, and, hanging 
his head on one side, went about with a fantastical, 15 
lackadaisical air, " babbling about green fields." But the 
personage that most struck my attention was a pragmatical l 
old gentleman, in clerical robes, with a remarkably large 
and square, but bald head. He entered the room wheez- 
ing and purling, elbowed his way through the throng, with 20 
a look of sturdy self-confidence, and having laid his hands 
upon a thick Greek quarto, clapped it upon his head, and 
swept majestically away in a formidable frizzled wig. 

In the height of this literary masquerade, a cry suddenly 
resounded from every side, of " Thieves ! thieves ! " 1 25 
looked, and lo ! the portraits about the wall became ani- 
mated ! The old authors thrust out, first a head, then a 
shoulder, from the canvas, looked down curiously, for an 
instant, upon the motley throng, and then descended with 
1 Officious. 



174 The Sketch-Book 

fury in their eyes, to claim their rifled property. The 
scene of scampering and hubbub that ensued baffles all 
description. The unhappy culprits endeavoured in vain to 
escape with their plunder. On one side might be seen half 
5 a dozen old monks stripping a modern professor ; on another, 
there was sad devastation carried into the ranks of modern 
dramatic writers. Beaumont and Fletcher, side by side, 
raged round the field like Castor and Pollux, and sturdy 
Ben Jonson enacted more wonders than when a volunteer 

10 with the army in Flanders. As to the dapper little com- 
piler of farragos, 1 mentioned some time since, he had ar- 
rayed himself in as many patches and colours as Harlequin, 
and there was as fierce a contention of claimants about him 
as about the dead body of Patroclus. I was grieved to 

15 see many men, to whom I had been accustomed to look 
up with awe and reverence, fain to steal off with scarce a 
rag to cover their nakedness. Just then my eye was 
caught by the pragmatical old gentleman in the Greek 
grizzled wig, who was scrambling away in sore affright 

20 with half a score of authors in full cry after him ! They 
were close upon his haunches : in a twinkling off went 
his wig ; at every turn some strip of raiment was peeled 
away ; until in a few moments, from his domineering pomp, 
he shrunk into a little, pursy, 2 " chopped bald shot," and 

25 made his exit with only a few tags and rags fluttering at 
his back. 

There was something so ludicrous in the catastrophe of 
this learned Theban, that I burst into an immoderate fit 
of laughter, which broke the whole illusion. The tumult 
1 Mixtures. 2 Puffing. 



The Art of Book-Making 175 

and the scuffle were at an end. The chamber resumed 
its usual appearance. The old authors shrunk back into 
their picture-frames, and hung in shadowy solemnity along 
the walls. In short, I found myself wide awake in my 
corner, with the whole assemblage of book-worms gazing 5 
at me with astonishment. Nothing of the dream had 
been real but my burst of laughter, a sound never before 
heard in that grave sanctuary, and so abhorrent to the ears 
of wisdom as to electrify the fraternity. 

The librarian now stepped up to me, and demanded 10 
whether I had a card of admission. At first I did not 
comprehend him, but I soon found that the library was a 
kind of literary "preserve," subject to game laws, and 
that no one must presume to hunt there without special 
licence and permission. In a word, I stood convicted of 15 
being an arrant poacher, and was glad to make a precipi- 
tate retreat, lest I should have a whole pack of authors 
let loose upon me. 



STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream 
Of things more than mortal sweet Shakespeare would dream; 
The fairies by moonlight dance round his green bed, 
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head. 
5 — Garrick. 

To a homeless man, who has no spot on this wide world 
which he can truly call his own, there is a momentary 
feeling of something like independence and territorial 1 
consequence, when, after a weary day's travel, he kicks 

10 off his boots, thrusts his feet into slippers, and stretches 
himself before an inn fire. Let the world without go as 
it may ; let kingdoms rise or fall, so long as he has the 
wherewithal to pay his bill, he is, for the time being, the 
very monarch of all he surveys. The arm-chair is his 

15 throne, the poker his sceptre, and the little parlour, some 
twelve feet square, his undisputed empire. It is a morsel 
of certainty, snatched from the midst of the uncertainties 
of life ; it is a sunny moment gleaming out kindly on a 
cloudy day ; and he who has advanced some way on a 

20 pilgrimage of existence, knows the importance of husband- 
ing even morsels and moments of enjoyment. " Shall I 
not take mine ease in mine inn?" thought I, as I gave 
the fire a stir, lolled back in my elbow-chair, and cast a 

1 Possessing lands of one's own. 
176 



Stratford-on-Avon 177 

complacent look about the little parlour of the Red Horse, 
at Stratford-on-Avon. 

The words of sweet Shakespeare were just passing 
through my mind as the clock struck midnight from the 
tower of the church in which he lies buried. There was 5 
a gentle tap at the door, and a pretty chambermaid, put- 
ting in her smiling face, inquired, with a hesitating air, 
whether I had rung. I understood it as a modest hint 
that it was time to retire. My dream of absolute domin- 
ion was at an end ; so abdicating my throne, like a pru- 10 
dent potentate, to avoid being deposed, and putting the 
Stratford Guide-Book under my arm, as a pillow compan- 
ion, I went to bed, and dreamt all night of Shakespeare, 
the jubilee, and David Garrick. 

The next morning was one of those quickening morn- 15 
ings which we sometimes have in early spring ; for it was 
about the middle of March. The chills of a long winter 
had suddenly given way ; the north wind had spent its 
last gasp ; and a mild air came stealing from the west, 
breathing the breath of life into nature, and wooing every 20 
bud and flower to burst forth into fragrance and beauty. 

I had come to Stratford on a poetical pilgrimage. My 
first visit was to the house where Shakespeare was born, 
and where, according to tradition, he was brought up to 
his father's craft of wool-combing. It is a small, mean- 25 
looking edifice of wood and plaster, a true nestling-place 
of genius, which seems to delight in hatching its offspring 
in by-corners. The walls of its squalid chambers are 
covered with names and inscriptions in every language, 
by pilgrims of all nations, ranks, and conditions, from the 30 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 12 



178 The Sketch-Book 

prince to the peasant ; and present a simple, but striking 
instance of the spontaneous and universal homage of 
mankind to the great poet of nature. 

The house is shown by a garrulous old lady, in a frosty 

5 red face, lighted up by a cold blue anxious eye, and 
garnished with artificial locks of flaxen hair, curling from 
under an exceedingly dirty cap. She was peculiarly 
assiduous in exhibiting the relics with which this, like all 
other celebrated shrines, abounds. There was the shat- 

10 tered stock of the very matchlock 1 with which Shakespeare 
shot the deer, on his poaching exploits. There, too, was 
his tobacco-box ; which proves that he was a rival smoker 
of Sir Walter Raleigh; the sword also with which he 
played Hamlet ; and the identical lantern with which Friar 

15 Laurence discovered Romeo and Juliet at the tomb ! 
There was an ample supply also of Shakespeare's mulberry 
tree, which seems to have as extraordinary powers of 
self-multiplication as the wood of the true cross ; of which 
there is enough extant to build a ship of the line. 

20 The most favourite object of curiosity, however, is 
Shakespeare's chair. It stands in the chimney nook of a 
small gloomy chamber, just behind what was his father's 
shop. Here he may many a time have sat when a boy, 
watching the slowly revolving spit with all the longing of 

25 an urchin ; or of an evening, listening to the cronies and 
gossips of Stratford, dealing forth churchyard tales and 
legendary anecdotes of the troublesome times of England. 
In this chair it is the custom of every one that visits the 
house to sit : whether this be done with the hope of imbibing 
1 An early type of musket. 



Stratford-on-Avon 179 

any of the inspiration of the bard I am at a loss to say, I 
merely mention the fact ; and mine hostess privately assured 
me, that, though built of solid oak, such was the fervent 
zeal of devotees, that the chair had to be new bottomed 
at least once in three years. It is worthy of notice also, 5 
in the history of this extraordinary chair, that it partakes 
something of the volatile nature of the Santa Casa of 
Loretto, or the flying chair of the Arabian enchanter; 
for though sold some few years since to a northern 
princess, yet, strange to tell, it has found its way back 10 
again to the old chimney corner. 

I am always of easy faith in such matters, and am ever 
willing to be deceived, where the deceit is pleasant and 
costs nothing. I am therefore a ready believer in relics, 
legends, and local anecdotes of goblins and great men ; 15 
and would advise all travellers who travel for their gratifi- 
cation to be the same. What is it to us, whether these 
stories be true or false, so long as we can persuade our- 
selves into the belief of them, and enjoy all the charm of 
the reality ? There is nothing like resolute good-humoured 20 
credulity in these matters; and on this occasion I went 
even so far as willingly to believe the claims of mine 
hostess to a lineal descent from the poet, when, luckily 
for my faith, she put into my hands a play of her own 
composition, which set all belief in her consanguinity 1 at 25 
defiance. 

From the birthplace of Shakespeare a few paces brought 
me to his grave. He lies buried in the chancel of the 
parish church, a large and venerable pile, mouldering with 
1 Blood-relationship. 






180 The Sketch-Book 

age, but richly ornamented. It stands on the banks of 
the Avon, on an embowered point, and separated by 
adjoining gardens from the suburbs of the town. Its situ- 
ation is quiet and retired ; the river runs murmuring at 
5 the foot of the churchyard, and the elms which grow upon 
its banks droop their branches into its clear bosom. An 
avenue of limes, 1 the boughs of which are curiously inter- 
laced, so as to form in summer an arched way of foliage, 
leads up from the gate of the yard to the church porch. 

10 The graves are overgrown with grass ; the grey tombstones, 
some of them nearly sunk into the earth, are half covered 
with moss, which has likewise tinted the reverend old 
building. Small birds have built their nests among the 
cornices and fissures of the walls, and keep up a continual 

15 flutter and chirping ; and rooks are sailing and cawing 
about its lofty grey spire. 

In the course of my rambles I met with the grey-headed 
sexton, Edmonds, and accompanied him home to get 
the key of the church. He had lived in Stratford, man 

20 and boy, for eighty years, and seemed still to consider 
himself a vigorous man, with the trivial exception that he 
had nearly lost the use of his legs for a few years past. His 
dwelling was a cottage, looking out upon the Avon and 
its bordering meadows ; and was a picture of that neatness, 

25 order, and comfort, which pervade the humblest dwellings 
in this country. A low white-washed room, with a stone 
floor carefully scrubbed, served for parlour, kitchen, and 
hall. Rows of pewter and earthen dishes glittered along 
the dresser. On an old oaken table, well rubbed and 
1 Lindens. 



Stratford-on-Avon 1 8 1 

polished, lay the family Bible and prayer-book, and the 
drawer contained the family library, composed of about 
half a score of well-thumbed volumes. An ancient clock, 
that important article of cottage furniture, ticked on the 
opposite side of the room ; with a bright warming-pan 5 
hanging on one side of it, and the old man's horn-handled 
Sunday cane on the other. The fireplace, as usual, was 
wide and deep enough to admit a gossip knot within its 
jambs. In one corner sat the old man's grand-daughter 
sewing, a pretty blue-eyed girl, — and in the opposite 10 
corner was a superannuated crony, whom he addressed 
by the name of John Ange, and who, I found, had been 
his companion from childhood. They had played to- 
gether in infancy ; they had worked together in manhood ; 
they were now tottering about and gossiping away the 15 
evening of life ; and in a short time they will probably be 
buried together in the neighbouring churchyard. It is 
not often that we see two streams of existence running 
thus evenly and tranquilly side by side ; it is only in such 
quiet " bosom scenes " of life that they are to be met with. 20 

I had hoped to gather some traditionary anecdotes of 
the bard from these ancient chroniclers ; but they had 
nothing new to impart. The long interval during which 
Shakespeare's writing lay in comparative neglect has 
spread its shadow over his history ; and it is his good or 25 
evil lot that scarcely anything remains to his biographers 
but a scanty handful of conjectures. 

The sexton and his companion had been employed as 
carpenters on the preparations for the celebrated Stratford 
jubilee, and they remembered Garrick, the prime mover of 3° 



1 82 The Sketch-Book 

the fete, who superintended the arrangements, and who, 
according to the sexton, was " a short punch man, very 
lively and bustling." John Ange had assisted also in cut- 
ting down Shakespeare's mulberry tree, of which he had a 
5 morsel in his pocket for sale ; no doubt a sovereign 
quickener of literary conception. 

I was grieved to hear these two worthy wights speak 
very dubiously of the eloquent dame who shows the 
Shakespeare house. John Ange shook his head when I 

10 mentioned her valuable collection of relics, particularly 
her remains of the mulberry tree ; and the old sexton 
even expressed a doubt as to Shakespeare having been 
born in her house. I soon discovered that he looked 
upon her mansion with an evil eye, as a rival to the poet's 

15 tomb; the latter having comparatively but few visitors. 
Thus it is that historians differ at the very outset, and 
mere pebbles make the stream of truth diverge into differ- 
ent channels even at the fountain-head. 

We approached the church through the avenue of 

20 limes, and entered by a Gothic porch, highly ornamented 
with carved doors of massive oak. The. interior is spac- 
ious, and the architecture and embellishments superior to 
to those of most country churches. There are several 
ancient monuments of nobility and gentry, over some of 

25 which hang funeral escutcheons, and banners dropping 
piecemeal from the walls. The tomb of Shakespeare is 
in the chancel. 1 The place is solemn and sepulchral. 
Tall elms wave before the pointed windows, and the 
Avon, which runs at a short distance from the walls, keeps 

1 Near the altar. 



Stratford-on-Avon 183 

up a low perpetual murmur. A flat stone marks the spot 
where the bard is buried. There are four lines inscribed 
on it, said to have been written by himself, and which 
have in them something extremely awful. If they are in- 
deed his own, they show that solicitude about the quiet of 5 
the grave, which seems natural to fine sensibilities and 
thoughtful minds. 

Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbeare 

To dig the dust enclosed here. 

Blessed be he that spares these stones, 10 

And curst be he that moves my bones. 

Just over the grave, in a niche of the wall, is a bust of 
Shakespeare, put up shortly after his death, and consid- 
ered as a resemblance. The aspect is pleasant and 
serene, with a finely arched forehead, and I thought 1 15 
could read in it clear indications of that cheerful, social 
disposition, by which he was as much characterized 
among his contemporaries as by the vastness of his genius. 
The inscription mentions his age at the time of his de- 
cease — fifty-three years; an untimely death for the 20 
world : for what fruit might not have been expected 
from the golden autumn of such a mind, sheltered as it 
was from the stormy vicissitudes of life, and flourishing in 
the sunshine of popular and royal favour. 

The inscription on the tombstone has not been without 25 
its effect. It has prevented the removal of his remains 
from the bosom of his native place to Westminster Abbey, 
which was at one time contemplated. A few years since, 
also, as some labourers were digging to make an adjoining 
vault, the earth caved in, so as to leave a vacant space 30 



184 The Sketch-Book 

almost like an arch, through which one might have 
reached into his grave. No one, however, presumed to 
meddle with his remains so awfully guarded by a maledic- 
tion 1 and lest any of the idle or the curious, or any col- 

5 lector of relics, should be tempted to commit depredation, 
the old sexton kept watch over the place for two days, 
until the vault was finished and the aperture closed again. 
He told me that he had made bold to look in at the hole, 
but could see neither coffin nor bones ; nothing but dust. 

10 It was something, I thought, to have seen the dust of 
Shakespeare. 

Next to this grave are those of his wife, his favourite 
daughter, Mrs. Hall, and others of his family. On a 
tomb close by, also, is a full-length effigy of his old friend 

15 John Combe of usurious 1 memory ; on whom he is said 
to have written a ludicrous epitaph. There are other 
monuments around, but the mind refuses to dwell on 
anything that is not connected with Shakespeare. His 
idea pervades the place ; the whole pile seems but as 

20 his mausoleum. The feelings, no longer checked and 
thwarted by doubt, here indulge in perfect confidence : 
other traces of him may be false or dubious, but here is 
palpable evidence and absolute certainty. As I trod the 
sounding pavement, there was something intense and 

25 thrilling in the idea, that, in very truth, the remains of 
Shakespeare were mouldering beneath my feet. It was 
a long time before I could prevail upon myself to leave 
the place ; and as I passed through the churchyard, I 

1 Usury, in Shakespeare's day, meant interest, not necessarily 
illegal. 



Stratford-on-Avon 185 

plucked a branch from one of the yew trees, the only 
relic that I have brought from Stratford. 

I had now visited the usual objects of a pilgrim's 
devotion, but I had a desire to see the old family seat 
of the Lucys, at Charlecot, and to ramble through the 5 
park where Shakespeare, in company with some of the 
roysters 1 of Stratford, committed his youthful offence of 
deer-stealing. In this hair-brained exploit we are told 
that he was taken prisoner, and carried to the keeper's 
lodge, where he remained all night in doleful captivity. 10 
When brought into the presence of Sir Thomas Lucy, his 
treatment must have been galling and humiliating; for 
it so wrought upon his spirit as to produce a rough 
pasquinade, 2 which was affixed to the park gate at 
Charlecot.* 15 

This flagitious 3 attack upon the dignity of the knight 
so incensed him, that he applied to a lawyer at Warwick 
to put the severity of the laws in force against the rhyming 

* The following is the only stanza extant of this lampoon : — 

A parliament member, a justice of peace, 20 

At home a poor scarecrow, at London an asse, 
If lowsie is Lucy, as some volke miscalle it 
Then Lucy is lowsie, whatever befall it. 

He thinks himself great ; 

Yet an asse in his state, 25 

We allow by his ears but with asses to mate, 
If Lucy is lowsie, as some volke miscalle it, 
Then sing lowsie Lucy whatever befall it. 



1 Boisterous fellows, gamesters. 2 Lampoon. 3 Wicked. 



1 86 The Sketch-Book 






deer-stalker. Shakespeare did not wait to brave the 
united puissance of a knight of the shire and a country 
attorney. He forthwith abandoned the pleasant banks 
of the Avon and his paternal trade ; wandered away to 

5 London ; became a hanger-on to the theatres ; then an 
actor ; and, finally, wrote for the stage ; and thus, through 
the persecution of Sir Thomas Lucy, Stratford lost an in- 
different wool-comber, and the world gained an immortal 
poet. He retained, however, for a long time, a sense of 

iothe harsh treatment of the Lord of Charlecot, and 
revenged himself in his writings ; but in the sportive way 
of a good-natured mind. Sir Thomas is said to be the 
original Justice Shallow, and the satire is slyly fixed upon 
him by the justice's armorial bearings, which, like those 

15 of the knight, had white luces * in the quarterings. 

Various attempts have been made by his biographers 
to soften and explain away this early transgression of the 
poet ; but I look upon it as one of those thoughtless 
exploits natural to his situation and turn of mind. 

20 Shakespeare, when young, had doubtless all the wildness 
and irregularity of an ardent, undisciplined, and un- 
directed genius. The poetic temperament has naturally 
something in it of the vagabond. When left to itself 
it runs loosely and wildly, and delights in everything 

25 eccentric and licentious. 1 It is often a turn-up of a die, 
in the gambling freaks of fate, whether a natural genius 

* The luce is a pike or jack, and abounds in the Avon about 
Charlecot. 

1 Unrestricted. 



Stratford-on-Avon 187 

shall turn out a great rogue or a great poet; and had 
not Shakespeare's mind fortunately taken a literary bias, 
he might have as daringly transcended all civil, as he has 
all dramatic laws. 

I have little doubt that, in early life, when running, 5 
like an unbroken colt, about the neighbourhood of 
Stratford, he was to be found in the company of all kinds 
of odd anomalous characters, that he associated with all 
the madcaps of the place, and was one of those unlucky 
urchins, at mention of whom old men shake their heads, 10 
and predict that they will one day come to the gallows. 
To him the poaching in Sir Thomas Lucy's park was 
doubtless like a foray 1 to a Scottish knight, and struck 
his eager, and, as yet untamed, imagination, as something 
delightfully adventurous.* 15 

* A proof of Shakespeare's random habits and associates in his 
youthful days may be found in a traditionary anecdote, picked up 
at Stratford by the elder Ireland, and mentioned in his Picturesque 
Views on the Avon. 

About seven miles from Stratford lies the thirsty little market- 20 
town of Bedford, famous for its ale. Two societies of the village 
yeomanry used to meet, under the appellation of the Bedford topers, 
and to challenge the lovers of good ale of the neighbouring villages 
to a contest of drinking. Among others, the people of Stratford 
were called out to prove the strength of their heads; and in the 25 
number of the champions was Shakespeare, who, in spite of the 
proverb that " they who drink beer will think beer," was as true to 
his ale as Falstaff to his sack. The chivalry of Stratford was stag- 
gered at the first onset, and sounded a retreat while they had yet 
legs to carry them off the field. They had scarcely marched a mile 30 

1 Raid. 



1 88 The Sketch-Book 

The old mansion of Charlecot and its surrounding 
park still remain in the possession of the Lucy family, and 
are peculiarly interesting, from being connected with this 
whimsical but eventful circumstance in the scanty history 
5 of the bard. As the house stood but little more than 
three miles' distance from Stratford, I resolved to pay it a 
pedestrian visit, that I might stroll leisurely through some 
of those scenes from which Shakespeare must have de- 
rived his earliest ideas of rural imagery. 

10 The country was yet naked and leafless \ but English 
scenery is always verdant, and the sudden change in the 
temperature of the weather was surprising in its quicken- 
ing effects upon the landscape. It was inspiring and 
animating to witness this first awakening of spring ; to feel 

15 its warm breath stealing over the senses ; to see the moist 
mellow earth beginning to put forth the green sprout and 
the tender blade ; and the trees and shrubs, in their re- 

when, their legs failing them, they were forced to lie down under 
a crab tree, where they passed the night. It is still standing, and 
20 goes by the name of Shakespeare's tree. 

In the morning his companions awaked the -bard, and proposed 
returning to Bedford, but he declined, saying he had had enough, 
having drank with 

Piping Pebworth, Dancing Marston, 
25 Haunted Hilbro', Hungry Grafton, 

Dudging Exhall, Papist Wicksford, 
Beggarly Broom, and Drunken Bedford. 
" The villages here alluded to," says Ireland, " still bear the epi- 
thets thus given them : the people of Pebworth are still famed for 
30 their skill on the pipe and tabor; Hilborough is now called Haunted 
Hilborough; and Grafton is famous for the poverty of its soil." 



Stratford- on- A von 1 89 

viving tints and bursting buds, giving the promise of 
returning foliage and flower. The cold snowdrop, that 
little borderer on the skirts of winter, was to be seen with 
its chaste white blossoms in the small gardens before the 5 
cottages. The bleating of the new-dropt lambs was faintly 
heard from the fields. The sparrow twittered about the 
thatched eaves and budding hedges ; the robin threw a 
livelier note into his late querulous wintry strain ; and the 
lark, springing up from the reeking bosom of the meadow, 10 
towered away into the bright fleecy cloud, pouring forth 
torrents of melody. As I watched the little songster, 
mounting up higher and higher, until his body was a mere 
speck on the white bosom of the cloud, while the ear was 
still filled with his music, it called to mind Shakespeare's 15 
exquisite little song in Cymbeline : — 

Hark ! hark ! the lark at heaven's gate sings, 

And Phoebus 'gins arise, 
His steeds to water at those springs, 

On chalked flowers that lies. 20 

And winking mary-buds begin 

To ope their golden eyes; 
With everything that pretty bin \ 

My lady sweet arise ! 

Indeed the whole country about here is poetic ground : 25 
everything is associated with the idea of Shakespeare. 
Every old cottage that I saw, I fancied into some resort 
of his boyhood, where he had acquired his intimate 
knowledge of rustic life and manners, and heard those 

1 A mistake on the part of some Shakespearean editors. The 
poet's word was " is." 



190 The Sketch-Book 

legendary tales and wild superstitions which he has woven 
like witchcraft into his dramas. For in his time, we are 
told, it was a popular amusement in winter evenings " to 
sit round the fire, and tell merry tales of errant knights, 

5 queens, lovers, lords, ladies, giants, dwarfs, thieves, 
cheaters, witches, fairies, goblins, and friars."* 

My route for a part of the way lay in sight of the Avon, 
which made a variety of the most fancy doublings and 
windings through a wide and fertile valley; sometimes 

10 glittering from among willows, which fringed its borders ; 
sometimes disappearing among groves, or beneath green 
banks ; and sometimes rambling out into full view, and 
making an azure sweep round a slope of meadow land. 
This beautiful bosom of country is called the Vale of the 

15 Red Horse. A distant line of undulating blue hills seems 
to be its boundary, whilst all the soft intervening land- 
scape lies in a manner enchained in the silver links of the 
Avon. 

After pursuing the road for about three miles, I turned 

20 off into a footpath, which led along the borders of fields, 
and under hedgerows to a private gate of the park ; there 
was a stile, however, for the benefit of the pedestrian ; 

* Scot, in his Discoverie of Witchcraft, enumerates a host of these 
fireside fancies. " And they have so fraid us with bull-beggars, 

25 spirits, witches, urchins, elves, hags, fairies, satyrs, pans, faunes, 
syrens, kit with the can sticke, tritons, centaurs, dwarfes, giantes, 
imps, calcars, conjurors, nymphes, changelings, incubus, Robin- 
good-fellow, the spoorne, the mare, the man in the oke, the hell- 
waine, the fler drake, the puckle, Tom Thombe, hobgoblins, Tom 

30 Tumbler, boneless, and such other bugs, that we were afraid of our 
own shadowes." 



Stratford-on-Avon 19 1 

there being a a public right of way through the grounds. 
I delight in these hospitable estates, in which every one 
has a kind of property — at least as far as the footpath is 
concerned. It in some measure reconciles a poor man 
to his lot, and what is more, to the better lot of his 5 
neighbour, thus to have parks and pleasure-grounds 
thrown open for his recreation. He breathes the pure air 
as freely, and lolls as luxuriously under the shade, as the 
lord of the soil ; and if he has not the privilege of calling 
all that he sees his own, he has not, at the same time, the 10 
trouble of paying for it, and keeping it in order. 

I now found myself among noble avenues of oaks and 
elms, whose vast size bespoke the growth of centuries. 
The wind sounded solemnly among their branches, and 
the rooks cawed from their hereditary nests in the tree 15 
tops. The eye ranged through a long lessening vista, 
with nothing to interrupt the view but a distant statue ; 
and a vagrant deer stalking like a shadow across the 
opening. 

There is something about these stately old avenues 20 
that has the effect of Gothic architecture, not merely 
from the pretended similarity of form, but from their 
bearing the evidence of long duration, and of having had 
their origin in a period of time with which we associate 
ideas of romantic grandeur. They betoken also the 25 
long-settled dignity, and proudly concentrated independ- 
ence of an ancient family; and I have heard a worthy 
but aristocratic old friend observe, when speaking of the 
sumptuous palaces of modern gentry, that " money could 
do much with stone and mortar, but, thank Heaven, there 5° 



192 The Sketch-Book 

was no such thing as suddenly building up an avenue of 
oaks." 

It was from wandering in early life among this rich 
scenery, and about the romantic solitudes of the adjoin- 

5 ing park of Fullbroke, which then formed a part of the 
Lucy estate, that some of Shakespeare's commentators 
have supposed he derived his noble forest meditations 
of Jaques, and the enchanting woodland pictures in As 
You Like It, It is in lonely wanderings through such 

10 scenes, that the mind drinks deep but quiet draughts of 
inspiration, and becomes intensely sensible of the beauty 
and majesty of nature. The imagination kindles into 
revery and rapture \ vague but exquisite images and 
ideas keep breaking upon it; and we revel in a mute 

15 and almost incommunicable luxury of thought. It was 
in some such mood, and perhaps under one of those very 
trees before me, which threw their broad shades over the 
grassy banks and quivering waters of the Avon, that the 
poet's fancy may have sallied forth into that little song 

20 which breathes the very soul of a rural voluptuary. 1 

Under the green wood tree, 
Who loves to lie with me, 
And tune his merry throat 
Unto the sweet bird's note, 
25 Come hither, come hither, come hither. 

Here shall he see 

No enemy, 
But winter and rough weather. 

I had now come in sight of the house. It is a large 
1 One who takes delight in the country. 



Stratford-on-Avon 1 93 

building of brick, with stone quoins, 1 and is in the Gothic 
style of Queen Elizabeth's day, having been built in the 
first year of her reign. The exterior remains very nearly 
in its original state, and may be considered a fair speci- 
men of the residence of a wealthy country gentleman of 5 
those days. A great gateway opens from the park into a 
kind of courtyard in front of the house, ornamented with 
a grass-plot, shrubs, and flower beds. The gateway is in 
imitation of the ancient barbican 2 ; being a kind of out- 
post, and flanked by towers ; though evidently for mere 10 
ornament, instead of defence. The front of the house is 
completely in the old style ; with stone- shafted case- 
ments, a great bow-window of heavy stone-work, and a 
portal with armorial bearings 3 over it, carved in stone. 
At each corner of the building is an octagon tower, sur- 15 
mounted by a gilt ball and weathercock. 

The Avon, which winds through the park, makes a 
bend just at the foot of a gently sloping bank, which 
sweeps down from the rear of the house. Large herds 
of deer were feeding or reposing upon its borders ; and 20 
swans were sailing majestically upon its bosom. As I 
contemplated the venerable old mansion, I called to 
mind FalstafT's encomium on Justice Shallow's abode, 
and the affected indifference and real vanity of the latter. 

" Fahtaff. You have a goodly dwelling and a rich. 25 

Shallow. Barren, barren, barren; beggars all, beggars all, Sir 
John : —marry, good air." 

1 Corner facings of stone blocks laid alternately length- and end- 
wise. 

2 A small tower over a fortified portal. 3 Coats of arms. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK 13 



194 The Sketch-Book 

Whatever may have been the joviality of the old man- 
sion in the days of Shakespeare, it had now an air of 
stillness and solitude. The great iron gateway that 
opened into the courtyard was locked ; there was no 
5 show of servants bustling about the place ; the deer 
gazed quietly at me as I passed, being no longer harried 
by the moss-troopers 1 of Stratford. The only sign of 
domestic life that I met with was a white cat, stealing 
with wary look and stealthy pace towards the stables, as 

ioif on some nefarious expedition. I must not omit to 
mention the carcass of a scoundrel crow which I saw 
suspended against the barn wall, as it shows that the 
Lucys still inherit that lordly abhorrence of poachers, 
and maintain that rigorous exercise of territorial power 

15 which was so strenuously manifested in the case of the 
bard. 

After prowling about for some time, I at length 
found my way to a lateral portal, 2 which was the 
everyday entrance to the mansion. I was courteously 

20 received by a worthy old housekeeper, who, with the 
civility and communicativeness of her order, showed me 
the interior of the house. The greater part has under- 
gone alterations, and been adapted to modern tastes and 
modes of living : there is a fine old oaken staircase ; and 

25 the great hall, that noble feature in an ancient manor- 
house, still retains much of the appearance it must have 
had in the days of Shakespeare. The ceiling is arched 
and lofty ; and at one end is a gallery in which stands 
an organ. The weapons and trophies of the chase, 
1 Border robbers. 2 Side door. 



Stratford-on-Avon 195 

which formerly adorned the hall of a country gentleman, 
have made way for family portraits. There is a wide 
hospitable fireplace, calculated for an ample old-fashioned 
wood fire, formerly the rallying-place of winter festivity. 
On the opposite side of the hall is the huge Gothic bow- 5 
window, with stone shafts, which looks out upon the 
courtyard. Here are emblazoned in stained glass the 
armorial bearings of the Lucy family for many genera- 
tions, some being dated in 1558. I was delighted to 
observe in the quarterings 1 the three white luces, by 10 
which the character of Sir Thomas was first identified 
with that of Justice Shallow. They are mentioned in the 
first scene of the Merry Wives of Windsor, where the 
Justice is in a rage with Falstaff for having " beaten his 
men, killed his deer, and broken into his lodge.' ' The 15 
poet had no doubt the offences of himself and his com- 
rades in mind at the time, and we may suppose the 
family pride and vindictive threats of the puissant 
Shallow to be a caricature of the pompous indignation 
of Sir Thomas. 20 

"Shallow. Sir Hugh, persuade me not; I will make a Star- 
Chamber 2 matter of it; if he were twenty John Falstaffs, he shall 
not abuse Sir Robert Shallow, Esq. 

Slender. In the county of Gloster, justice of peace, and coram? 

Shallow. Ay, cousin Slender, and custalorum.^ . 25 



1 Divisions of the escutcheon (shield) on which the arms are em- 
blazoned (painted). 

2 A court of justice which met in the palace of Westminster. 

3 In the presence of. 

4 Custos rotalorum, guardian of documents. 



196 The Sketch-Book 

Slender. Ay, and ratalorum 1 too, and a gentleman born, mas- 
ter parson; who writes himself Armigero' 2 in any bill, warrant, 
quittance, or obligation, Armigero. 

Shallow. Ay, that I do; and have done any time these three 
5 hundred years. 

Slender. All his successors gone before him have done 't, and 
all his ancestors that come after him may; they may give the dozen 
white luces in their coat 

Shallow. The council shall hear it; it is a riot. 
10 Evans. It is not meet the council hear of a riot; there is no 
fear of Got in a riot; the council, hear you, shall desire to hear the 
fear of Got, and not to hear a riot; take your vizaments 3 in that. 

Shallow. Ha! o' my life, if I were young again, the sword 
should end it ! " 

15 Near the window thus emblazoned hung a portrait by 
Sir Peter Lely, of one of the Lucy family, a great beauty 
of the time of Charles the Second : the old housekeeper 
shook her head as she pointed to the picture, and in- 
formed me that this lady had been sadly addicted to 

20 cards, and had gambled away a great portion of the family 
estate, among which was that part of the park where 
Shakespeare and his comrades had killed the deer. The 
lands thus lost had not been entirely regained by the 
family even at the present day. It is but justice to this 

25 recreant dame to confess that she had a surpassingly fine 
hand and arm. 

The picture which most attracted my attention was a 
great painting over the fireplace, containing likenesses of 
Sir Thomas Lucy and his family, who inhabited the hall 

1 Has no meaning. 2 Armiger, one who has a coat of arms. 

8 Advertisements; take your vizaments = make up your minds. 



Stratford-on-Avon 197 

in the latter part of Shakespeare's lifetime. I at first 
thought that it was the vindictive knight himself, but the 
housekeeper assured me that it was his son ; the only 
likeness extant of the former being an effigy upon his 
tomb in the church of the neighbouring hamlet of Charle- 5 
cot.* The picture gives a lively idea of the costume and 
manners of the time. Sir Thomas is dressed in ruff 
and doublet ; white shoes with roses 1 in them ; and has 
a peaked yellow, or, as Master Slender would say, " a 

* This effigy is in white marble, and represents the Knight in 10 
complete armour. Near him lies the effigy of his wife, and on her 
tomb is the following inscription ; which, if really composed by her 
husband, places him quite above the intellectual level of Master 
Shallow: — 

Here lyeth the Lady Joyce Lucy wife of Sir Thomas Lucy of 15 
Charlecot in ye county of Warwick, Knight, Daughter and heir of 
Thomas Acton of Sutton in ye county of Worcester Esquire who 
departed out of this wretched world to her heavenly kingdom ye 
10 day of February in ye yeare of our Lord God 1595 and of her 
age 60 and three. All the time of her lyfe a true and faythful ser- 20 
vant of her good God, never detected of any cryme or vice. In 
religion most sounde, in love to her husband most faythful and 
true. In friendship most constant; to what in trust was committed 
unto her most secret. In wisdom excelling. In governing of her 
house, bringing up of youth in ye fear of God that did converse 25 
with her moste rare and singular. A great maintayner of hospi- 
tality. Greatly esteemed of her betters; misliked of none unless 
of the envyous. When all is spoken that can be saide a woman 
so garnished with virtue is not to be bettered and hardly to be 
equalled by any. As shee lived most virtuously so shee died most 30 
Godly. Set downe by him yt best did knowe what hath byn writ- 
ten to be true. Thomas Lucye. 

1 Rosettes. 



198 The Sketch-Book 

cane-coloured beard." His lady is seated on the oppo- 
site side of the picture, in wide ruff and long stomacher, 
and the children have a most venerable stiffness and 
formality of dress. Hounds and spaniels are mingled 
5 in the family group ; a hawk is seated on his perch in 
the foreground, and one of the children holds a bow ; — 
all intimating the knight's skill in hunting, hawking, and 
archery — so indispensable to an accomplished gentle- 
man in those days.* 

10 I regretted to find that the ancient furniture of the 
hall had disappeared ; for I had hoped to meet with the 
stately elbow-chair of carved oak, in which the country 
squire of former days was wont to sway the sceptre of 
empire over his rural domains ; and in which it might be 

15 presumed the redoubted Sir Thomas sat enthroned in 
awful state when the recreant Shakespeare was brought 

* Bishop Earle, speaking of the country gentleman of his time, 
observes, " his housekeeping is seen much in the different families 
of dogs, and serving-men attendant on their kennels; and the 

20 deepness of their throats is the depth of his discourse. A hawk 
he esteems the true burden of nobility, and is exceedingly ambitious 
to seem delighted with the sport, and have his fist gloved with his 
jesses." 1 And Gilpin, in his description of a Mr. Hastings, re- 
marks, "he kept all sorts of hounds that run buck, fox, hare, otter, 

25 and badger; and had hawks of all kinds both long and short 
winged. His great hall was commonly strewed with marrow 
bones, and full of hawk, perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers. 
On a broad hearth, paved with brick, lay some of the choicest ter- 
riers, hounds, and spaniels." 



1 Short straps to attach to the falcon's leg, when the bird is 
carried. 



Stratford-on-Avon 1 99 

before him. As I like to deck out pictures for my own 
entertainment, I pleased myself with the idea that this 
very hall had been the scene of the unlucky bard's 
examination on the morning after his captivity in the 
lodge. I fancied to myself the rural potentate, surrounded 5 
by his body-guard of butler, pages, and blue-coated 
serving-men, with their badges; while the luckless culprit 
was brought in, forlorn and chopfallen, in the custody of 
gamekeepers, huntsmen, and whippers-in, and followed 
by a rabble rout of country clowns. I fancied bright 10 
faces of curious housemaids peeping from the half-opened 
doors ; while from the gallery the fair daughters of the 
knight leaned gracefully forward, eyeing the youthful 
prisoner with that pity " that dwells in womanhood." — 
Who would have thought that this poor varlet, thus 15 
trembling before the brief authority of a country squire, 
and the sport of rustic boors, was soon to become the 
delight of princes, the theme of all tongues and ages, 
the dictator to the human mind, and was to confer immor- 
tality on his oppressor by a caricature and a lampoon ! 20 

I was now invited by the butler to walk into the 
garden, and I felt inclined to visit the orchard and arbour 
where the justice treated Sir John FalstafT and Cousin 
Silence " to a last year's pippin of his own grafting, with 
a dish of caraways ; " but I had already spent so much 25 
of the day in my ramblings that I was obliged to give up 
any further investigations. When about to take my 
leave I was gratified by the civil entreaties of the house- 
keeper and butler, that I would take some refreshment : 
an instance of good old hospitality which, I grieve to 30 



200 The Sketch-Book 

say, we castle- hunters seldom meet with in modern days. 
I make no doubt it is a virtue which the present repre- 
sentative of the Lucys inherits from his ancestors ; for 
Shakespeare, even in his caricature, makes Justice Shallow 
5 importunate in this respect, as witness his pressing 
instances to FalstafT. 

"By cock and pye, 1 sir, you shall not away to-night ... I 
will not excuse you; you shall not be excused; excuses shall not 
be admitted; there is no excuse shall serve; you shall not be 
10 excused. . . . Some pigeons, Davy; a couple of short-legged 
hens; a joint of mutton; and any pretty little tiny kickshaws, tell 
William Cook.' , 

I now bade a reluctant farewell to the old hall. My 
mind had become so completely possessed by the imag- 

isinary scenes and characters connected with it, that I 
seemed to be actually living among them. Everything 
brought them as it were before my eyes ; and as the 
door of the dining-room opened, I almost expected to 
hear the feeble voice of Master Silence quavering forth 

20 his favourite ditty : — 

" 'Tis merry in hall, when beards wag all, 
And welcome merry shrove-tide ! " 2 

On returning to my inn, I could not but reflect on the 

singular gift of the poet ; to be able thus to spread the 

25 magic of his mind over the very face of nature ; to give 

to things and places a charm and character not their own, 

and to turn this " working-day world " into a perfect 

1 God and the Service Book. 

2 The period of a week or so preceding Shrove-Tuesday, the last 
day before Lent. 



Stratford-on- Avon 20 1 

fairy land. He is indeed the true enchanter, whose spell 
operates, not upon the senses, but upon the imagination 
and the heart. Under the wizard influence of Shake- 
speare I had been walking all day in a complete de- 
lusion. I had surveyed the landscape through the prism 5 
of poetry, which tinged every object with the hues of 
the rainbow. I had been surrounded with fancied 
beings ; with mere airy nothings, conjured up by poetic 
power ; yet which, to me, had all the charm of reality. 
I had heard Jaques soliloquize beneath his oak : had be- 10 
held the fair Rosalind and her companion adventuring 
through the woodlands ; and, above all, had been once 
more present in spirit with fat Jack Falstaff and his 
contemporaries, from the august Justice Shallow, down 
to the gentle Master Slender and the sweet Anne Page. 15 
Ten thousand honours and blessings on the bard who 
has thus gilded the dull realities of life with innocent 
illusions ; who has spread exquisite and unbought 
pleasures in my chequered path ; and beguiled my 
spirit in many a lonely hour, with all the cordial and 20 
cheerful sympathies of social life ! 

As I crossed the bridge over the Avon on my return, 
I paused to contemplate the distant church in which the 
poet lies buried, and could not but exult in the malediction, 
which has kept his ashes undisturbed in its quiet and 25 
hallowed vaults. What honour could his name have 
derived from being mingled in dusty companionship with 
the epitaphs and escutcheons and venal * eulogiums of a 
titled multitude ? What would a crowded corner in West- 

1 Bought. 



202 The Sketch-Book 

minster Abbey have been, compared with this reverend 
pile, which seems to stand in beautiful loneliness as his 
sole mausQleum ! The solicitude about the grave may 
be but the offspring of an over- wrought sensibility ; but 

5 human nature is made up of foibles and prejudices ; and 
its best and tenderest affections are mingled with these 
factitious 1 feelings. He who has sought renown about 
the world, and has reaped a full harvest of worldly favour, 
will find, after all, that there is no love, no admiration, no 

10 applause, so sweet to the soul as that which springs up in 
his native place. It is there that he seeks to be gathered 
in peace and honour among his kindred and his early 
friends. And when the weary heart and failing head be- 
gin to warn him that the evening of life is drawing on, he 

15 turns as fondly as does the infant to the mother's arms, 
to sink to sleep in the bosom of the scene of his child- 
hood. 

How would it have cheered the spirit of the youthful 
bard when, wandering forth in disgrace upon a doubtful 

20 world, he cast back a heavy look upon his paternal home, 
could he have foreseen that, before many years, he should 
return to it covered with renown ; that his name should 
become the boast and glory ot his native place ; that his 
ashes should be religiously guarded as its most precious 

25 treasure ; and that its lessening spire, on which his eyes 
were fixed in tearful contemplation, should one day be- 
come the beacon, towering amidst the gentle landscape, 
to guide the literary pilgrim of every nation to his tomb ! 

1 Artificial, made-up. 









THE ANGLER 

This day dame Nature seem'd in love, 

The lusty sap began to move, 

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines, 

And birds had drawn their valentin 

The jealous trout that low did lie, 5 

Rose at a well-dissembled flie. 

There stood my friend, with patient skill, 

Attending of his trembling quill. 

— Sir H. Wotton. 

It is said that many an unlucky urchin is induced to 10 
run away from his family, and betake himself to a sea- 
faring life, from reading the history of Robinson Crusoe ; 
and I suspect that, in like manner, many of those worthy 
gentlemen who are given to haunt the sides of pastoral 
streams, with angle-rods in hand, may trace the origin of 15 
their passion to the seductive pages of honest Izaak Wal- 
ton. I recollect studying his Complete Angler several 
years since, in company with a knot of friends in America, 
and moreover that we were all completely bitten with the 
angling mania. It was early in the year ; but as soon as 20 
the weather was auspicious and that the spring began to 
melt into the verge of summer, we took rod in hand and 
sallied into the country, as stark mad as was ever Don 
Quixote from reading books of chivalry. 

One of our party had equalled the Don in the fullness 25 
203 



204 The Sketch-Book 

of his equipments ; being attired cap-a-pie 1 for the enter- 
prise. He wore a broad-skirted fustian 2 coat, perplexed 
with half a hundred pockets ; a pair of stout shoes, and 
leathern gaiters ; a basket slung on one side for fish \ a 
5 patent rod, a landing-net, and a score of other inconven- 
iences, only to be found in the true angler's armoury. 
Thus harnessed for the field, he was as great a matter of 
stare and wonderment among the country folk, who had 
never seen a regular angler, as was the steel-clad hero of 

10 La Mancha among the goat-herds of the Sierra Morena. 

Our first essay was along a mountain brook, among the 

highlands of the Hudson ; a most unfortunate place for 

the execution of those piscatory tactics which had been 

invented along the velvet margins of quiet English rivulets. 

15 It was one of those wild streams that lavish, among our 
romantic solitudes, unheeded beauties, enough to fill the 
sketch-book of a hunter of the picturesque. Sometimes 
it would leap down rocky shelves, making small cascades, 
over which the trees threw their broad balancing sprays, 

20 and long nameless weeds hung in fringes from the impend- 
ing banks, dripping with diamond drops: Sometimes it 
would brawl and fret along a ravine in the matted shade of a 
forest, filling it with murmurs ; and, after this termagant 3 
career, would steal forth into open day with the most 

25 placid demure face imaginable ; as I have seen some pes- 
tilent shrew of a housewife, after filling her home with 
uproar and ill humour, come dimpling out of doors, swim- 
ming and courtesying, and smiling upon all the world. 

How smoothly would this vagrant brook glide at such 
1 From head to foot. 2 Heavy cotton cloth. 3 Shrewish. 



The Angler 205 

times, through some bosom of green meadow land among 
the mountains ; where the quiet was only interrupted by 
the occasional tinkling of a bell from the lazy cattle among 
the clover, or the sound of a wood-cutter's axe from the 
neighbouring forest. 5 

For my part, I was always a bungler at all kinds of sport 
that required either patience or adroitness, and had not 
angled aoove half an hour before I had completely " satis- 
fied the sentiment," and convinced myself of the truth of 
Izaak Walton's opinion, that angling is something like 10 
poetry — a man must be born to it. I hooked myself 
instead of the fish ; tangled my line in every tree ; lost 
my bait ; broke my rod ; until I gave up the attempt in 
despair, and passed the day under the trees, reading old 
Izaak ; satisfied that it was his fascinating vein of honest 15 
simplicity and rural feeling that had bewitched me, and 
not the passion for angling. My companions, however, 
were more persevering in their delusion. I have them at 
this moment before my eyes, stealing along the border of 
the brook, where it lay open to the day, or was merely 20 
fringed by shrubs and bushes. I see the bittern rising 
with hollow scream as they break in upon his rarely 
invaded haunt ; the kingfisher watching them suspiciously 
from his dry tree that overhangs the deep black mill-pond, 
in the gorge of the hills ; the tortoise letting himself slip 25 
sideways from off the stone or log on which he is sunning 
himself; and the panic-struck frog plumping in headlong 
as they approach, and spreading an alarm throughout the 
watery world around. 

I recollect also, that, after toiling and watching and 30 



206 The Sketch-Book 

creeping about for the greater part of a day, with scarcely 
any success, in spite of all our admirable apparatus, a 
lubberly country urchin came down from the hills with a 
rod made from a branch of a tree, a few yards of twine, 
5 and, as Heaven shall help me ! I believe, a crooked pin 
for a hook, baited with a vile earthworm, — and in half an 
hour caught more fish than we had nibbles throughout 
the day ! 

But, above all, I recollect, the " good, honest, whole- 

iosome, hungry" repast, which we made under a beech 
tree, just by a spring of pure sweet water that stole out 
of the side of a hill ; and how, when it was over, one 
of the party read old Izaak Walton's scene with the 
milkmaid, while I lay on the grass and built castles in 

15 a bright pile of clouds until I fell asleep. All this 
may appear like mere egotism ; yet I cannot refrain 
from uttering these recollections, which are passing 
like a strain of music over my mind, and have been 
called up by an agreeable scene which I witnessed not 

20 long since. 

In a morning's stroll along the banks, of the Alun, a 
beautiful little stream which flows down from the Welsh 
hills and throws itself into the Dee, my attention was 
attracted to a group seated on the margin. On ap- 

25 proaching, I found it to consist of a veteran angler and 
two rustic disciples. The former was an old fellow with 
a wooden leg, with clothes very much but very carefully 
patched, betokening poverty, honestly come by, and 
decently maintained. His face bore the marks of former 

30 storms, but present fair weather; its furrows had been 



The Angler 207 

worn into an habitual smile; his iron-grey locks hung 
about his ears, and he had altogether the good-humoured 
air of a constitutional philosopher who was disposed to 
take the world as it went. One of his companions was 
a ragged wight, with the skulking look of an arrant 5 
poacher, and I'll warrant could find his way to any 
gentleman's fish-pond in the neighbourhood in the dark- 
est night. The other was a tall, awkward, country lad, with 
a lounging gait, and apparently somewhat of a rustic 
beau. The old man was busy in examining the maw 10 
of a trout which he had just killed, to discover by its con- 
tents what insects were seasonable for bait ; and was 
lecturing on the subject to his companions, who ap- 
peared to listen with infinite deference. I have a kind 
feeling towards all "brothers of the angle,' ' ever since 15 
I read Izaak Walton. They are men, he affirms, of a 
" mild, sweet, and peaceable spirit ; " and my esteem 
for them has been increased since I met with an old 
Tretyse of fishing with the Angle, in which are set forth 
many of the maxims of their inoffensive fraternity. 20 
"Take good hede," sayeth this honest little tretyse, 
" that in going about your disportes ye open no man's 
gates but that ye shet them again. Also ye shall not use 
this forsayd crafti disport for no covetousness to the en- 
creasing and sparing of your money only, but principally 25 
for your solace, and to cause the helth of your body and 
specyally of your soule." * 

* From this same treatise, it would appear that angling is a more 
industrious and devout employment than it is generally considered. 
— " For when ye purpose to go on your disportes in fishynge ye 30 



208 The Sketch-Book 

I thought that I could perceive in the veteran angler 
before me an exemplification of what I had read ; and 
there was a cheerful contentedness in his looks that quite 
drew me toward him. I could not but remark the 
5 gallant manner in which he stumped from one part of 
the brook to another ; waving his rod in the air, to keep 
the line from dragging on the ground or catching among 
the bushes ; and the adroitness with which he would 
throw his fly to any particular place ; sometimes skim- 

10 ming it lightly along a little rapid, sometimes casting it 
into one of those dark holes made by a twisted root or 
overhanging bank, in which the large trout are apt to 
lurk. In the meanwhile he was giving instructions to his 
two disciples ; showing them the manner in which they 

15 should handle their rods, fix their flies, and play along the 
surface of the stream. The scene brought to my mind 
the instructions of the sage Piscator to his scholar. The 
country around was of that pastoral kind which Walton 
is fond of describing. It was a part of the great plain 

20 of Cheshire, close by the beautiful vale of Gessford, and 
just where the inferior Welsh hills begin to swell up from 
among fresh-swelling meadows. The day, too, like that 
recorded in his work, was mild and sunshiny, with now 
and then a soft-dropping shower, that sowed the whole 

25 earth with diamonds. 

will not desyre greatlye many persons with you, which might let 
you of your game. And that ye may serve God devoutly in sayinge 
effectually your customable prayers. And thus doying, ye shall 
eschew and also avoide many vices, as ydelnes, which is principall 
30 cause to induce man to many other vices, as it is right well known." 



The Angler 209 

I soon fell into conversation with the old angler, and 
was so much entertained that, under pretext of receiving 
instructions in his art, I kept company with him almost 
the whole day ; wandering along the banks of the stream, 
and listening to his talk. He was very communicative, 5 
having all the easy garrulity of cheerful old age ; and I 
fancy was a little flattered by having an opportunity of 
displaying his piscatory lore ; for who does not like now 
and then to play the sage? 

He had been much of a rambler in his day, and had 10 
passed some years of his youth in America, particularly 
in Savannah, where he had entered into trade, and had 
been ruined by the indiscretion of a partner. He had 
afterwards experienced many ups and downs in life, until 
he got into the navy, where his leg was carried away by 15 
a cannon-ball, at the battle of Camperdown. This was 
the only stroke of real good fortune he had ever expe- 
rienced, for it got him a pension, which, together with 
some small paternal property, brought him in a revenue 
of nearly forty pounds. On this he retired to his native 20 
village, where he lived quietly and independently ; and 
devoted the remainder of his life to the "noble art of 
angling.' ' 

I found that he had read Izaak Walton attentively, and 
he seemed to have imbibed all his simple frankness and 25 
prevalent good-humour. Though he had been sorely 
buffeted about the world, he was satisfied that the world, 
in itself, was good and beautiful. Though he had been 
as roughly used in different countries as a poor sheep 
that is fleeced by every hedge and thicket, yet he spoke 30 

THE SKETCH-BOOK 1 4 



no The Sketch-Book 

of every nation with candour and kindness, appearing 
to look only on the good side of things ; and above all, 
he was almost the only man I had ever met with who 
had been an unfortunate adventurer in America, and had 
5 honesty and magnanimity enough to take the fault to his 
own door, and not to curse the country. The lad that 
was receiving his instructions, I learnt, was the son and 
heir apparent of a fat old widow who kept the village 
inn, and of course a youth of some expectation, and 

iomuch courted by the idle gentlemanlike personages of 
the place. In taking him under his care, therefore, the 
old man had probably an eye to a privileged corner 
in the tap-room, and an occasional cup of cheerful ale 
free of expense. 

15 There is certainly something in angling, if we could 
forget, which anglers are apt to do, the cruelties and 
tortures inflicted on worms and insects, that tends to 
produce a gentleness of spirit, and a pure serenity of 
mind. As the English are methodical even in their 

20 recreations, and are the most scientific of sportsmen, 
it has been reduced among them to perfect rule and 
system. Indeed it is an amusement peculiarly adapted 
to the mild and highly cultivated scenery of England, 
where every roughness has been softened away from the 

25 landscape. It is delightful to saunter along those limpid 
streams which wander, like veins of silver, through the 
bosom of this beautiful country ; leading one through 
a diversity of small home scenery ; sometimes winding 
through ornamental grounds ; sometimes brimming along 

30 through rich pasturage, where the fresh green is mingled 



The Angler 211 

with sweet-smelling flowers ; sometimes venturing in sight 
of villages and hamlets, and then running capriciously 
away into shady retirements. The sweetness and serenity 
of nature, and the quiet watchfulness of the sport, gradu- 
ally bring on pleasant fits of musing, which are now and 5 
then agreeably interrupted by the song of a bird, the 
distant whistle of the peasant, or perhaps the vagary of 
some fish, leaping out of the still water, and skimming 
transiently about its glassy surface. "When I would be- 
get content," says Izaak Walton, " and increase confi- 10 
dence in the power and wisdom and providence of 
Almighty God, I will walk the meadows by some gliding 
stream, and there contemplate the lilies that take no 
care, and those very many other little living creatures 
that are not only created but fed (man knows not how) 15 
by the goodness of the God of nature, and therefore trust 
in him." 

I cannot forbear to give another quotation from one of 
those ancient champions of angling, which breathes the 
same innocent and happy spirit : — 20 

" Let me live harmlessly, and near the brink 

Of Trent or Avon have a dwelling-place, 
Where I may see my quill, or cork, down sink, 

With eager bite of pike, or bleak, or dace; 
And on the world and my Creator think : 25 

Whilst some men strive ill-gotten goods t' embrace; 
And others spend their time in base excess 

Of wine, or worse, in war, or wantonness. 

" Let them that will, these pastimes still pursue, 

And on such pleasing fancies feed their fill; 30 

So I the fields and meadows green may view, 



212 The Sketch-Book 

And daily by fresh river walk at will, 

Among the daisies and the violets blue, 

Red hyacinth and yellow daffodil." * 

On parting with the old angler I inquired after his place 
5 of abode : and happening to be in the neighbourhood of 
the village a few evenings afterward, I had the curiosity 
to seek him out. I found him living in a small cottage, 
containing only one room, but a perfect curiosity in its 
method and arrangement. It was on the skirts of the vil- 

10 lage, on a green bank, a little back from the road, with a 
small garden in front, stocked with kitchen-herbs, and 
adorned with a few flowers. The whole front of the cot- 
tage was overrun with a honeysuckle. On the top was a 
ship for a weathercock. The interior was fitted up in a 

15 truly nautical style, his ideas of comfort and convenience 
having been acquired on the berth-deck of a man-of-war. 
A hammock was slung from the ceiling, which, in the day- 
time, was lashed up so far as to take but little room. 
From the centre of the chamber hung a model of a ship, 

20 of his own workmanship. Two or three chairs, a table, 
and a large sea-chest, formed the principal movables. 
About the wall were stuck up naval ballads, such as Ad- 
miral Hosier's Ghost, All in the Downs, and Tom 
Bowline, intermingled with pictures of sea-fights, among 

25 which the battle of Camperdown held a distinguished place. 
The mantelpiece was decorated with sea-shells; over 
which hung a quadrant, 1 flanked by two wood-cuts of most 

* J. Davors. 



1 An instrument for determining the sun's altitude. 



The Angler 213 

bitter-looking naval commanders. His implements for 
angling were carefully disposed on nails and hooks about 
the room. On a shelf was arranged his library, contain- 
ing a work on angling, much worn, a Bible covered with 
canvas, an odd volume or two of voyages, a nautical 5 
almanac, and a book of songs. 

His family consisted of a large black cat with one eye, 
and a parrot which he had caught and tamed, and educated 
himself, in the course of one of his voyages; and which 
uttered a variety of sea-phrases with the hoarse brattling 10 
tone of a veteran boatswain. The establishment reminded 
me of that of the renowned Robinson Crusoe ; it was kept 
in neat order, everything being " stowed away " with the 
regularity of a ship-of-war ; and he informed me that he 
"scoured the deck every morning, and swept it between 15 
meals. " 

I found him seated on a bench before the door smok- 
ing his pipe in the soft evening sunshine. His cat was 
purring soberly on the threshold, and his parrot describ- 
ing some strange evolutions in an iron ring that swung in 20 
the centre of his cage. He had been angling all day, and 
gave me a history of his sport with as much minuteness as 
a general would talk over a campaign ; being particularly 
animated in relating the manner in which he had taken a 
large trout, which had completely tasked all his skill and 25 
wariness, and which he had sent as a trophy to mine 
hostess of the inn. 

How comforting it is to see a cheerful and contented 
old age ; and to behold a poor fellow, like this, after be- 
ing tempest-tost through life, safely moored in a snug and 30 



2T4 The Sketch-Book 

quiet harbour in the evening of his days ! His happiness, 
however, sprung from within himself, and was independ- 
ent of external circumstances ; for he had that inex- 
haustible good-nature, which is the most precious gift of 

5 Heaven, — spreading itself like oil over the troubled sea 
of thought, and keeping the mind smooth and equable in 
the roughest weather. 

On inquiring further about him, I learned that he was 
a universal favourite in the village, and the oracle of the 

10 tap-room ; where he delighted the rustics with his songs, 
and, like Sinbad, astonished them with his stories of strange 
lands, and ship-wrecks, and sea-fights. He was much 
noticed too by gentlemen sportsmen of the neighbour- 
hood ; had taught several of them the art of angling ; 

15 and was a privileged visitor to their kitchens. The whole 
tenor of his life was quiet and inoffensive, being prin- 
cipally passed about the neighbouring streams, when the 
weather and season were favourable ; and at other times 
he employed himself at home, preparing his fishing-tackle 

20 for the next campaign, or manufacturing rods, nets, and 
flies for his patrons and pupils among the gentry. 

He was a regular attendant at church on Sundays 
though he generally fell asleep during the sermon. He 
had made it his particular request that when he died he 

25 should be buried in a green spot, which he could see 
from his seat in church, and which he had marked out 
ever since he was a boy, and had thought of when far 
from home on the raging sea, in danger of being food for 
the fishes; — it was the spot where his father and mother 

30 had been buried. 



The Angler 2 1 5 

I have done, for I fear my reader is growing weary ; 
but I could not refrain from drawing the picture of this 
worthy "brother of the angle" ; who has made me more 
than ever in love with the theory, though I fear I shall 
never be adroit in the practice of his art ; and I will con- 5 
elude this rambling sketch in the words of honest Izaak 
Walton, by craving the blessing of St. Peter's master 
upon my reader, " and upon all that are true lovers of 
virtue : and dare trust in his providence ; and be quiet; 
and go a-angling," IO 



THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

FOUND AMONG THE PAPERS OF THE LATE DIEDRICH 
KNICKERBOCKER 

A pleasing land of drowsy head x it was, 

Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
5 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 

For ever flushing round a summer sky. 

— Castle of Indolence. 

In the bosom of one of those spacious coves which 
indent the eastern shore of the Hudson, at that broad ex- 

10 pansion of the river denominated by the ancient Dutch 
navigators the Tappan Zee, and where they always pru- 
dently shortened sail, and implored the protection of St. 
Nicholas when they crossed, there lies a small market 
town or rural port, which by some is called Greenburgh, 

15 but which is more generally and properly known by the 
name of Tarry Town. This name was given, we are told, 
in former days, by the good housewives of the adjacent 
country, from the inveterate propensity of their husbands 
to linger about the village tavern on market days. Be 

20 that as it may, I do not vouch for the fact, but merely 
advert to it for the sake of being precise and authentic. 
Not far from this village, perhaps about two miles, there 
is a little valley, or rather lap of land, among high hills, 

1 Drowsihood, drowsiness. 
216 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 217 

which is one of the quietest places in the whole world. 
A small brook glides through it, with just murmur enough 
to lull one to repose ; and the occasional whistle of a 
quail, or tapping of a woodpecker, is almost the only 
sound that ever breaks in upon the uniform tranquillity. 5 

I recollect that, when a stripling, my first exploit in 
squirrel shooting was in a grove of tall walnut trees that 
shades one side of the valley. I had wandered into it at 
noon time, when all nature is peculiarly quiet, and was 
startled by the roar of my own gun, as it broke the Sab- 10 
bath stillness around, and was prolonged and reverberated 
by the angry echoes. If ever I should wish for a retreat, 
whither I might steal from the world and its distractions, 
and dream quietly away the remnant of a troubled life, I 
know of none more promising than this little valley. 15 

From the listless repose of the place, and the peculiar 
character of its inhabitants, who are descendants from 
the original Dutch settlers, this sequestered glen has long 
been known by the name of Sleepy Hollow, and its 
rustic lads are called the Sleepy Hollow Boys throughout 20 
all the neighbouring country. A drowsy, dreamy influence 
seems to hang over the land, and to pervade the very 
atmosphere. Some say that the place was bewitched by 
a high 1 German doctor, during the early days of the 
settlement ; others, that an old Indian chief, the prophet 25 
or wizard of his tribe, held his pow-wows 2 there before 
the country was discovered by Master Hendrick Hudson. 
Certain it is, the place still continues under the sway of 

1 As contrasted with the low German (platt-deutsch) of Friesland. 

2 Councils. 



2i 8 The Sketch-Book 

some witching power, that holds a spell over the minds 
of the good people, causing them to walk in a continual 
reverie. They are given to all kinds of marvellous be- 
liefs ; are subject to trances and visions ; and frequently 
5 see strange sights, and hear music and voices in the air. 
The whole neighbourhood abounds with local tales, 
haunted spots, and twilight superstitions ; stars shoot and 
meteors glare oftener across the valley than in any other 
part of the country, and the nightmare, with her whole 

io ninefold, seems to make it the favourite scene of her 
gambols. 

The dominant spirit, however, that haunts this en- 
chanted region, and seems to be commander-in-chief of all 
the powers of the air, is the apparition of a figure on horse- 

15 back without a head. It is said by some to be the ghost 
of a Hessian trooper, whose head had been carried away 
by a cannon-ball, in some nameless battle during the 
Revolutionary War, and who is ever and anon seen by 
the country folk, hurrying along in the gloom of night, 

20 as if on the wings of the wind. His haunts are not 
confined to the valley, but extend at times to the adjacent 
roads, and especially to the vicinity of a church at no 
great distance. Indeed, certain of the most authentic 
historians of those parts, who have been careful in 

25 collecting and collating the floating facts concerning this 
spectre, allege that the body of the trooper, having been 
buried in the churchyard, the ghost rides forth to the 
scene of battle in nightly quest of his head ; and that 
the rushing speed with which he sometimes passes along 

30 the Hollow, like a midnight blast, is owing to his being 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 219 

belated, and in a hurry to get back to the churchyard 
before daybreak. 

Such is the general purport of this legendary superstition, 
which has furnished materials for many a wild story in 
that region of shadows ; and the spectre is known, at all 5 
the country firesides, by the name of the Headless Horse- 
man of Sleepy Hollow. 

It is remarkable that the visionary propensity I have 
mention is not confined to the native inhabitants of 
the valley, but is unconsciously imbibed by every one who 10 
resides there for a time. However wide-awake they 
may have been before they entered that sleepy region, 
they are sure, in a little time, to inhale the witching 
influence of the air, and begin to grow imaginative, to 
dream dreams, and see apparitions. I5 

I mention this peaceful spot with all possible laud ; 
for it is in such little retired Dutch valleys, found here 
and there embosomed in the great State of New York, 
that population, manners, and customs remain fixed ; 
while the great torrent of migration and improvement, 20 
which is making such incessant changes in other parts 
of this restless country, sweeps by them unobserved. 
They are like those little nooks of still water which border 
a rapid stream ; where we may see the straw and bubble 
riding quietly at anchor, or slowly revolving in their mimic 25 
harbour, undisturbed by the rush of the passing current. 
Though many years have elapsed since I trod the drowsy 
shades of Sleepy Hollow, yet I question whether I should 
not still find the same trees and the same families vege- 
tating in its sheltered bosom. 30 



220 The Sketch-Book 

In this by-place of nature, there abode, in a remote 
period of American history, that is to say, some thirty 
years since, a worthy wight of the name of Ichabod Crane ; 
who sojourned, or, as he expressed it, " tarried," in 
5 Sleepy Hollow, for the purpose of instructing the children 
of the vicinity. He was a native of Connecticut, a State 
which supplies the Union with pioneers for the mind as 
well as for the forest, and sends forth yearly its legions 
of frontier woodsmen and country schoolmasters. The 

10 cognomen of Crane was not inapplicable to his person. 
He was tall, but exceedingly lank, with narrow shoulders, 
long arms and legs, hands that dangled a mile out of his 
sleeves, feet that might have served for shovels, and his 
whole frame most loosely hung together. His head was 

15 small, and flat at top, with huge ears, large green glassy 
eyes, and a long snipe nose, so that it looked like a 
weathercock perched upon his spindle neck, to tell which 
way the wind blew. To see him striding along the pro- 
file of a hill on a windy day, with his clothes bagging and 

20 fluttering about him, one might have mistaken him for 
the genius of famine descending upon the earth, or some 
scarecrow eloped * from a cornfield. 

His school-house was a low building of one large room, 
rudely constructed of logs ; the windows partly glazed, 

25 and partly patched with leaves of old copy-books. It 
was most ingeniously secured at vacant hours by a withe 
twisted in the handle of the door, and stakes set against 
the window-shutters ; so that, though a thief might get in 
with perfect ease, he would find some embarrassment in 
1 Escaped. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 221 

getting out : an idea most probably borrowed by the 
architect, Yost Van Houten, from the mystery of an eel- 
pot. 1 The school-house stood in a rather lonely but 
pleasant situation, just at the foot of a woody hill, with a 
brook running close by, and a formidable birch tree grow- 5 
ing at one end of it. From hence the low murmur of 
his pupils' voices, conning over their lessons, might be 
heard in a drowsy summer's day, like the hum of a bee- 
hive ; interrupted now and then by the authoritative 
voice of the master, in the tone of menace or command ; 10 
or, peradventure, by the appalling sound of the birch, as 
he urged some tardy loiterer along the flowery path of 
knowledge. Truth to say, he was a conscientious man, 
and ever bore in mind the golden maxim, " Spare the rod 
and spoil the child." — Ichabod Crane's scholars certainly 15 
were not spoiled. 

I would not have it imagined, however, that he was 
one of those cruel potentates of the school, who joy in 
the smart of their subjects ; on the contrary, he adminis- 
tered justice with discrimination rather than severity, 20 
taking the burden off the backs of the weak, and laying 
it on those of the strong. Your mere puny stripling, 
that winced at the least flourish of the rod, was passed 
by with indulgence ; but the claims of justice were satis- 
fied by inflicting a double portion on some little, tough, 25 
wrong-headed, broad-skirted Dutch urchin, who sulked 
and swelled and grew dogged and sullen beneath the 
birch. All this he called " doing his duty " by their par- 
ents ; and he never inflicted a chastisement without 
1 A funnel-like trap for eels. 



222 The Sketch-Book 

following it by the assurance, so consolatory to the smart- 
ing urchin, that " he would remember it, and thank him 
for it the longest day he had to live." 

When school hours were over, he was even the cora- 

5 panion and playmate of the larger boys ; and on holiday 
afternoons would convoy some of the smaller ones home, 
who happened to have pretty sisters, or good housewives 
for mothers, noted for the comforts of the cupboard. In- 
deed, it behooved him to keep on good terms with his 

10 pupils. The revenue arising from his school was small, 
and would have been scarcely sufficient to furnish him 
with daily bread, for he was a huge feeder, and, though 
lank, had the dilating powers of an anaconda \ but to 
help out his maintenance, he was, according to country 

15 custom in those parts, boarded and lodged at the houses 
of the farmers, whose children he instructed. With these 
he lived successively a week at a time ; thus going the 
rounds of the neighbourhood, with all his worldly effects 
tied up in a cotton handkerchief. 

20 That all this might not be too onerous on the purses 
of his rustic patrons, who are apt to consider the costs of 
schooling a grievous burden, and schoolmasters as mere 
drones, he had various ways of rendering himself both 
useful and agreeable. He assisted the farmers occasion- 

25 ally in the lighter labours of their farms ; helped to make 
hay ; mended the fences ; took the horses to water ; 
drove the cows from pasture ; and cut wood for the 
winter fire. He laid aside, too, all the dominant dignity 
and absolute sway with which he lorded it in his little 

30 empire, the school, and became wonderfully gentle and 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 223 

ingratiating. He found favour in the eyes of the moth- 
ers, by petting the children, particularly the youngest; 
and like the lion bold, which whilom so magnanimously 
the lamb did hold, he would sit with a child on one 
knee, and rock a cradle with his foot for whole hours 5 
together. 

In addition to his other vocations, he was the singing- 
master of the neighbourhood, and picked up many bright 
shillings by instructing the young folks in psalmody. It 
was a matter of no little vanity to him, on Sundays, to 10 
take his station in front of the church-gallery, with a band 
of chosen singers ; where, in his own mind, he completely 
carried away the palm from the parson. Certain it is, 
his voice resounded far above all the rest of the congre- 
gation ; and there are peculiar quavers still to be heard 15 
in that church, and which may even be heard half 
a mile off, quite to the opposite side of the mill- 
pond, on a still Sunday morning, which are said to be 
legitimately descended from the nose of Ichabod Crane. 
Thus, by divers little makeshifts in that ingenious way 20 
which is commonly denominated " by hook and by crook," 
the worthy pedagogue got on tolerably enough, and was 
thought, by all who understood nothing of the labour 
of head work, to have a wonderfully easy life of it. 

The schoolmaster is generally a man of some impor-25 
tance in the female circle of a rural neighbourhood ; 
being considered a kind of idle, gentleman-like person- 
age, of vastly superior taste and accomplishments to the 
rough country swains, and, indeed, inferior in learning 
only to the parson. His appearance, therefore, is apt to 30 



224 The Sketch-Book 

occasion some little stir at the tea-table of a farm-house, 
and the addition of a supernumerary dish of cakes or 
sweetmeats, or, peradventure, the parade of a silver teapot. 
Our man of letters, therefore, was peculiarly happy in the 

5 smiles of all the country damsels. How he would figure 
among them in the churchyard, between services on Sun- 
days ! gathering grapes for them from the wild vines that 
overrun the surrounding trees ; reciting for their amuse- 
ment all the epitaphs on the tombstones ; or sauntering, 

iowith a whole bevy of them, along the banks of the 
adjacent mill-pond ; while the more bashful country 
bumpkins hung sheepishly back, envying his superior 
elegance and address. 

From his half itinerant life, also, he was a kind of 

is travelling gazette, carrying the whole budget of local 
gossip from house to house : so that his appearance was 
always greeted with satisfaction. He was, moreover, 
esteemed by the women as a man of great erudition, for 
he had read several books quite through, and was a per- 

20 feet master of Cotton Mather's History of 'New England 
Witchcraft, in which, by the way, he most firmly and 
potently believed. 

He was, in fact, an odd mixture of small shrewdness 
and simple credulity. His appetite for the marvellous, 

25 and his powers of digesting it, were equally extraordinary ; 
and both had been increased by his residence in this 
spellbound region. No tale was too gross or monstrous 
for his capacious swallow. It was often his delight, after 
his school was dismissed in the afternoon, to stretch him- 

30 self on the rich bed of clover bordering the little brook 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 225 

that whimpered by his school-house, and there con over 
old Mather's direful tales, until the gathering dusk of the 
evening made the printed page a mere mist before his 
eyes. Then, as he wended his way, by swamp and stream, 
and awful woodland, to the farm-house where he hap- 5 
pened to be quartered, every sound of nature, at that 
witching hour, fluttered his excited imagination ; the 
moan of the whip-poor-will * from the hill-side ; the bod- 
ing cry of the tree-toad, that harbinger of storm ; the 
dreary hooting of the screech-owl, or the sudden rustling 10 
in the thicket of birds frightened from their roost. The 
fire-flies, too, which sparkled most vividly in the darkest 
places, now and then startled him, as one of uncommon 
brightness would stream across his path ; and if, by chance, 
a huge blockhead of a beetle came winging his blunder- 15 
ing flight against him, the poor varlet was ready to give 
up the ghost, with the idea that he was struck with a 
witch's token. His only resource on such occasions, 
either to drown thought or drive away evil spirits, was to 
sing psalm tunes ; and the good people of Sleepy Hollow, 20 
as they sat by their doors of an evening, were often filled 
with awe, at hearing his nasal melody, " in linked sweet- 
ness long drawn out," floating from the distant hill, or 
along the dusky road. 

Another of his sources of fearful pleasure was to pass 25 
long winter evenings with the old Dutch wives, as they 
sat spinning by the fire, with a row of apples roasting and 

* The whip-poor-will is a bird which is only heard at night. It 
receives its name from its note, which is thought to resemble those 
words. 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 1 5 



226 The Sketch-Book 

spluttering along the hearth and listen to their marvel- 
lous tales of ghosts and goblins, and haunted fields, 
and haunted brooks, and haunted bridges, and haunted 
houses, and particularly of the headless horseman, or 

sGallopping Hessian of the Hollow, as they sometimes 
called him. He would delight them equally by his 
anecdotes of witchcraft, and of the direful omens and 
portentous sights and sounds in the air, which prevailed 
in the earlier times of Connecticut ; and would frighten 

10 them woefully with speculations upon comets and shoot- 
ing stars, and with the alarming fact that the world did 
absolutely turn round, and that they were half the time 
topsy-turvy ! 

But if there was a pleasure in all this, while snugly 

15 cuddling in the chimney-corner of a chamber that was all 
of a ruddy glow from the crackling wood fire, and where, 
of course, no spectre dared to show his face, it was dearly 
purchased by the terrors of his subsequent walk home- 
wards. What fearful shapes and shadows beset his path 

20 amidst the dim and ghastly glare of a snowy night ! — With 
what wistful look did he eye every trembling ray of light 
streaming across the waste fields from some distant 
window ! — How often was he appalled by some shrub 
covered with snow, which, like a sheeted spectre, beset his 

25 very path ! — How often did he shrink with curdling awe 
at the sound of his own steps on the frosty crust beneath 
his feet ; and dread to look over his shoulder, lest he 
should behold some uncouth being tramping close behind 
him ! — and how often was he thrown into complete dis- 

30 may by some rushing blast, howling among the trees, in 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 227 

the idea that it was the Gallopping Hessian on one of his 
nightly scourings ! 

All these, however, were mere terrors of the night, 
phantoms of the mind that walk in darkness ; and though 
he had seen many spectres in his time, and been mores 
than once beset by Satan in divers shapes, in his lonely 
perambulations, yet daylight put an end to all these evils ; 
and he would have passed a pleasant life of it, in despite 
of the devil and all his works, if his path had not been 
crossed by a being that causes more perplexity to mortal 10 
man than ghosts, goblins, and the whole race of witches 
put together, and that was — a woman. 

Among the musical disciples who assembled, one even- 
ing in each week, to receive his instructions in psalmody, 
was Katrina Van Tassel, the daughter and only child of 15 
a substantial Dutch farmer. She was a blooming lass of 
fresh eighteen ; plump as a partridge ; ripe and melting 
and rosy-cheeked as one of her father's peaches, and uni- 
versally famed, not merely for her beauty, but her vast ex- 
pectations. She was withal a little of a coquette, as might 20 
be perceived even in her dress, which was a mixture of 
ancient and modern fashions, as most suited to set off her 
charms. She wore the ornaments of pure yellow gold, 
which her great-great-grandmother had brought over from 
Saardam ; the tempting stomacher 1 of the olden time; 25 
and withal a provokingly short petticoat, to display the 
prettiest foot and ankle in the country round. 

Ichabod Crane had a soft and foolish heart towards the 
sex ; and it is not to be wondered at that so tempting a 
1 See p. 64. 



228 The Sketch-Book 

morsel soon found favour in his eyes ; more especially 
after he had visited her in her paternal mansion. Old 
Baltus Van Tassel was a perfect picture of a thriving, con- 
tented, liberal-hearted farmer. He seldom, it is true, sent 
5 either his eyes or his thoughts beyond the boundaries of 
his own farm ; but within those everything was snug, 
happy, and well-conditioned. He was satisfied with his 
wealth, but not proud of it ; and piqued himself upon the 
hearty abundance rather than the style in which he lived. 

10 His stronghold was situated on the banks of the Hudson, 
in one of those green, sheltered, fertile nooks in which 
the Dutch farmers are so fond of nestling. A great elm 
tree spread its broad branches over it ; at the foot of 
which bubbled up a spring of the softest and sweetest 

15 water, in a little well, formed of a barrel ; and then stole 
sparkling away through the grass, to a neighbouring brook, 
that bubbled along among alders and dwarf willows. 
Hard by the farm-house was a vast barn, that might have 
served for a church ; every window and crevice of which 

20 seemed bursting forth with the treasures of the farm ; the 
flail was busily resounding within it from morning till 
night; swallows and martins skimmed twittering about 
the eaves ; and rows of pigeons, some with one eye turned 
up, as if watching the weather, some with their heads 

25 under their wings, or buried in their bosoms, and others 
swelling, and cooing, and bowing about their dames, were 
enjoying the sunshine on the roof. Sleek unwieldy 
porkers were grunting in the repose and abundance of 
their pens ; whence sallied forth, now and then, troops of 

30 sucking pigs, as if to snuff the air. A stately squadron of 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 229 

snowy geese were riding in an adjoining pond, convoying 
whole fleets of ducks ; regiments of turkeys were gobbling 
through the farm-yard, and guinea fowls fretting about it, 
like ill-tempered housewives, with their peevish discon- 
tented cry. Before the barn-door strutted the gallants 
cock, that pattern of a husband, a warrior, and a fine 
gentleman, clapping his burnished wings, and crowing in 
the pride and gladness of his heart — sometimes tearing 
up the earth with his feet, and then generously calling his 
ever-hungry family of wives and children to enjoy the rich 10 
morsel which he had discovered. 

The pedagogue's mouth watered, as he looked upon 
this sumptuous promise of luxurious winter fare. In his 
devouring mind's eye he pictured to himself every roast- 
ing-pig running about with a pudding in his belly, and an 15 
apple in his mouth ; the pigeons were snugly put to bed 
in a comfortable pie, and tucked in with a coverlet of 
crust ; the geese were swimming in their own gravy ; and 
the ducks pairing cosily in dishes, like snug married 
couples, with a decent competency of onion sauce. In 20 
the porkers he saw carved out the future sleek side of 
bacon, and juicy relishing ham ; not a turkey but he 
beheld daintily trussed up, with its gizzard under its 
wing, and, peradventure, a necklace of savory sausages ; 
and even bright chanticleer himself lay sprawling on his 25 
back, in a side-dish, with uplifted claws, as if craving that 
quarter which his chivalrous spirit disdained to ask while 
living. 

As the enraptured Ichabod fancied all this, and as he 
rolled his great green eyes over the fat meadow lands, the 30 



230 The Sketch-Book 

rich fields of wheat, of rye, of buckwheat, and Indian 
corn, and the orchard burdened with ruddy fruit, which 
surrounded the warm tenement of Van Tassel, his heart 
yearned after the damsel who was to inherit these do- 
5 mains, and his imagination expanded with the idea how 
they might be readily turned into cash, and the money 
invested in immense tracts of wild land, and shingle 
palaces in the wilderness. Nay, his busy fancy already 
realized his hopes, and presented to him the blooming 
10 Katrina, with a whole family of children, mounted on the 
top of a wagon loaded with household trumpery, with 
pots and kettles dangling beneath ; and he beheld him- 
self bestriding a pacing mare, with a colt at her heels, 
setting out for Kentucky, Tennessee, or the Lord knows 
15 where. 

When he entered the house, the conquest of his heart 
was complete. It was one of those spacious farm-houses, 
with high-ridged, but lowly-sloping roofs, built in the 
style handed down from the first Dutch settlers ; the low 
20 projecting eaves forming a piazza along the front, capable 
of being closed up in bad weather. Under this were 
hung flails, harness, various utensils of husbandry, and 
nets for fishing in the neighbouring river. Benches were 
built along the sides for summer use ; and a great spin- 
as ning-wheel at one end, and a churn at the other, showed 
the various uses to which this important porch might be 
devoted. From this piazza the wondering Ichabod en- 
tered the hall, which formed the centre of the mansion 
and the place of usual residence. Here, rows of resplen- 
30 dent pewter, ranged on a long dresser, dazzled his eyes. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 231 

In one corner stood a huge bag of wool ready to be 
spun; in another a quantity of linsey-woolsey * just from 
the loom ; ears of Indian corn, and strings of dried ap- 
ples and peaches, hung in gay festoons along the walls, 
mingled with the gaud 2 of red peppers; and a door lefts 
ajar gave him a peep into the best parlour, where 
the claw-footed chairs and dark mahogany tables shone 
like mirrors ; and irons, with their accompanying shovel 
and tongs, glistened from their covert of asparagus tops ; 
mock-oranges 3 and conch-shells decorated the mantel- 10 
piece ; strings of various coloured birds' eggs were sus- 
pended above it, a great ostrich egg was hung from the 
centre of the room, and a corner-cupboard, knowingly 
left open, displayed immense treasures of old silver and 
well-mended china. 15 

From the moment Ichabod laid his eyes upon these 
regions of delight, the peace of his mind was at an end, 
and his only study was how to gain the affections of the 
pe'erless daughter of Van Tassel. In this enterprise, how- 
ever, he had more real difficulties than generally fell to 20 
the lot of a knight- errant of yore, who seldom had any- 
thing but giants, enchanters, fiery dragons, and such like 
easily conquered adversaries, to contend with ; and had 
to make his way merely through gates of iron and brass, 
and walls of adamant, to the castle-keep, where the lady 25 
of his heart was confined ; all which he achieved as easily 
as a man would carve his way to the centre of a Christ- 
mas pie ; and then the lady gave him her hand as a 

1 Cloth made of linen and wool. 2 Decoration. 

8 A kind of gourd. 



232 The Sketch-Book 

matter of course. Ichabod, on the contrary, had to win 
his way to the heart of a country coquette, beset with a 
labyrinth of whims and caprices, which were forever pre- 
senting new difficulties and impediments ; and he had to 
5 encounter a host of fearful adversaries of real flesh and 
blood, the numerous rustic admirers, who beset every 
portal to her heart ; keeping a watchful and angry eye 
upon each other, but ready to fly out in the common 
cause against any new competitor. 

10 Among these the most formidable was a burly, roaring, 
roistering blade, of the name of Abraham, or, according to 
the Dutch abbreviation, Brom Van Brunt, the hero of the 
country round, which rang with his feats of strength and 
hardihood. He was broad-shouldered, and double- 

15 jointed, with short curly black hair, and a bluff but not 
unpleasant countenance, having a mingled air of fun and 
arrogance. From his Herculean frame and great powers 
of limb, he had received the nickname of Brom Bones, 
by which he was universally known. He was famed for 

20 great knowledge and skill in horsemanship, being as dex- 
terous on horseback as a Tartar. He was foremost at 
all races and cockfights ; and, with the ascendency which 
bodily strength acquires in rustic life, was the umpire in 
all disputes, setting his hat on one side, and giving his 

25 decisions with an air and tone admitting of no gainsay or 
appeal. He was always ready for either a fight or a frolic ; 
but he had more mischief than ill will in his composition ; 
and, with all his overbearing roughness, there was a strong 
dash of waggish good humour at bottom. He had three 

30 or four boon companions, who regarded him as their 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 233 

model, and at the head of whom he scoured the country, 
attending every scene of feud or merriment for miles 
round. In cold weather he was distinguished by a fur 
cap, surmounted with a flaunting fox's tail ; and when 
the folks at a country gathering descried this well-known 5 
crest at a distance, whisking about among a squad of hard 
riders, they always stood by for * a squall. Sometimes 
his crew would be heard dashing along past the farm-houses 
at midnight, with whoop and halloo, like a troop of Don 
Cossacks ; and the old dames, startled out of their sleep, 10 
would listen for a moment till the hurry-scurry had clat- 
tered by, and then exclaim, " Ay, there goes Brom Bones 
and his gang ! " The neighbours looked upon him with a 
mixture of awe, admiration, and good will ; and when any 
madcap prank, or rustic brawl, occurred in the vicinity, 15 
always shook their heads, and warranted Brom Bones was 
at the bottom of it. 

This rantipole 2 hero had for some time singled out the 
blooming Katrinafor the object of his uncouth gallantries ; 
and though his amorous toyings were something like the 20 
gentle caresses and endearments of a bear, yet it was 
whispered that she did not altogether discourage his 
hopes. Certain it is, his advances were signals for rival 
candidates to retire, who felt no inclination to cross a 
lion in his amours ; insomuch, that, when his horse 25 
was seen tied to Van Tassel's paling, on a Sunday night, a 
sure sign that his master was courting, or, as it is termed, 
" sparking," within, all other suitors passed by in despair, 
and carried the war into other quarters. 

1 Prepared for. 2 Rakish. 



234 The Sketch-Book 

Such was the formidable rival with whom Ichabod 
Crane had to contend, and, considering all things, a 
stouter man than he would have shrunk from the competi- 
tion, and a wiser man would have despaired. He had, how- 
5 ever, a happy mixture of pliability and perseverance in 
his nature ; he was in form and spirit like a supple-jack 1 — 
yielding, but tough ; though he bent, he never broke ; and 
though he bowed beneath the slightest pressure, yet, the 
moment it was away — jerk ! he was as erect, and carried 

10 his head as high as ever. 

To have taken the field openly against his rival would 
have been madness ; for he was not a man to be thwarted 
in his amours, any more than that stormy lover, Achilles. 
Ichabod, therefore, made his advances in a quiet and 

15 gently insinuating manner. Under cover of his character 
of singing-master, he had made frequent visits at the farm- 
house ; not that he had anything to apprehend from the 
meddlesome interference of parents, which is so often a 
stumbling-block in the path of lovers. Bait Van Tassel 

20 was an easy, indulgent soul ; he loved his daughter better 
even than his pipe, and, like a reasonable man and an ex- 
cellent father, let her have her way in everything. His 
notable little wife, too, had enough to do to attend to her 
housekeeping and manage her poultry ; for, as she sagely 

25 observed, ducks and geese are foolish things, and must be 
looked after, but girls can take care of themselves. Thus 
while the busy dame bustled about the house, or plied 
her spinning-wheel at one end of the piazza, honest Bait 
would sit smoking his evening pipe at the other, watching 
1 An elastic walking-stick. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 235 

the achievements of a little wooden warrior, who, armed 
with a sword in each hand, was most valiantly fighting the 
wind on the pinnacle of the barn. In the mean time, 
Ichabod would carrry on his suit with the daughter by 
the side of the spring under the great elm, or sauntering 5 
along in the twilight, — that hour so favourable to the 
lover's eloquence. 

I profess not to know how women's hearts are wooed 
and won. To me they have always been matters of 
riddle and admiration. Some seem to have but one 10 
vulnerable point, or door of access ; while others have a 
thousand avenues, and may be captured in a thousand 
different ways. It is a great triumph of skill to gain the 
former, but a still greater proof of generalship to main- 
tain possession of the latter, for the man must battle for 15 
his fortress at every door and window. He who wins a 
thousand common hearts is therefore entitled to some 
renown; but he who keeps undisputed sway over the 
heart of a coquette, is indeed a hero. Certain it is, this 
was not the case with the redoubtable Brom Bones ; and 20 
from the moment Ichabod Crane made his advances, 
the interests of the former evidently declined ; his horse 
was no longer seen tied at the paling on Sunday nights, 
and a deadly feud gradually arose between him and the 
preceptor of Sleepy Hollow. 25 

Brom, who had a degree of rough chivalry in his 
nature, would fain have carried matters to open warfare, 
and have settled their pretensions to the lady according 
to the mode of those most concise and simple reasoners, 
the knights- errant of yore — by single combat; but 3° 



2^6 The Sketch-Book 

Ichabod was too conscious of the superior might of his 
adversary to enter the lists against him : he had over- 
heard a boast of Bones, that he would " double the 
schoolmaster up, and lay him on a shelf of his own school- 
5 house ; " and he was too wary to give him an opportunity. 
There was something extremely provoking in this ob- 
stinately pacific system ; it left Brom no alternative but 
to draw upon the funds of rustic waggery in his disposi- 
tion, and to play off boorish practical jokes upon his 

10 rival. Ichabod became the object of whimsical persecu- 
tion to Bones and his gang of rough riders. They harried 
his hitherto peaceful domains ; smoked out his singing- 
school, by stopping up the chimney ; broke into the 
school-house at night, in spite of its formidable fastenings 

15 of withe and window-stakes, and turned everything topsy- 
turvy : so that the poor schoolmaster began to think all 
the witches in the country held their meetings there. 
But what was still more annoying, Brom took oportunities 
of turning him into ridicule in presence of his mistress, 

20 and had a scoundrel dog whom he taught to whine in 
the most ludicrous manner, and introduced as a rival of 
Ichabod's to instruct her in psalmody. 

In this way matters went on for some time, without 
producing any material effect on the relative situation of 

25 the contending powers. On a fine autumnal afternoon, 
Ichabod, in pensive mood, sat enthroned on the lofty 
stool whence he usually watched all the concerns of his 
little literary realm. In his hand he swayed a ferule, that 
sceptre of despotic power ; the birch of justice reposed 

30 on three nails, behind the throne, a constant terror to 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 237 

evil-doers ; while on the desk before him might be seen 
sundry contraband articles and prohibited weapons, 
detected upon the persons of idle urchins ; such as half- 
munched apples, popguns, whirligigs, fly-cages, and whole 
legions of rampant little paper game-cocks. Apparently 5 
there had been some appalling act of justice recently in- 
flicted, for his scholars were all busily intent upon their 
books, or slyly whispering behind them with one eye 
kept upon the master ; and a kind of buzzing stillness 
reigned throughout the school-room. It was suddenly 10 
interrupted by the appearance of a negro, in tow-cloth 
jacket and trousers, a round-crowned fragment of a hat, 
like the cap of Mercury, and mounted on the back of a 
ragged, wild, half-broken colt, which he managed with a 
rope by way of halter. He came clattering up to the 15 
school door with an invitation to Ichabod to attend a 
merry-making or " quilting frolic," to be held that evening 
at Mynheer Van Tassel's ; and having delivered his mes- 
sage with that air of importance, and effort at fine 
language, which a negro is apt to display on petty em- 20 
bassies of the kind, he dashed over the brook, and was 
seen scampering away up the Hollow, full of the im- 
portance and hurry of his mission. 

All was now bustle and hubbub in the late quiet school- 
room. The scholars were hurried through their lessons, 25 
without stopping at trifles ; those who were nimble skipped 
over half with impunity, and those who were tardy had a 
smart application now and then in the rear, to quicken 
their speed, or help them over a tall word. Books were 
flung aside without being put away on the shelves, 30 



238 The Sketch-Book 

inkstands were overturned, benches thrown down, and the 
whole school was turned loose an hour before the usual 
time, bursting forth like a legion of young imps, yelping 
and racketing about the green, in joy at their early 
5 emancipation. 

The gallant Ichabod now spent at least an extra half- 
hour at his toilet, brushing and furbishing up his best and 
indeed only suit of rusty black, and arranging his looks by 
a bit of broken looking-glass, that hung up in the school- 

10 house. That he might make his appearance before his 
mistress in the true style of a cavalier, he borrowed a 
horse from the farmer with whom he was domiciliated, a 
choleric old Dutchman, of the name of Hans Van Ripper, 
and, thus gallantly mounted, issued forth, like a knight- 

15 errant in quest of adventures. But it is meet I should, in 
the true spirit of romantic story, give some account of 
the looks and equipments of my hero and his steed. The 
animal he bestrode was a broken-down plough-horse, that 
had outlived almost everything but his viciousness. He 

20 was gaunt and shagged, with a ewe 1 neck and a head like a 
hammer ; his rusty mane and tail were tangled and knotted 
with burrs ; one eye had lost its pupil, and was glaring 
and spectral ; but the other had the gleam of a genuine 
devil in it. Still he must have had fire and mettle in his 

25 day, if we may judge from the name he bore of Gun- 
powder. He had, in fact, been a favourite steed of his 
master's, the choleric Van Ripper, who was a furious rider, 
and had infused, very probably, some of his own spirit 
into the animal ; for, old and broken-down as he looked, 
1 Thin and badly arched. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 239 

there was more of the lurking devil in him than in any 
young filly in the country. 

Ichabod was a suitable figure for such a steed. He 
rode with short stirrups, which brought his knees nearly 
up to the pommel of the saddle ; his sharp elbows stuck 5 
out like grasshoppers' ; he carried his whip perpendicularly 
in his hand, like a sceptre, and, as his horse jogged on, 
the motion of his arms was not unlike the flapping of a 
pair of wings. A small wool hat rested on the top of his 
nose, for so his scanty strip of forehead might be called ; 10 
and the skirts of his black coat fluttered out almost to the 
horse's tail. Such was the appearance of Ichabod and his 
steed, as they shambled out of the gate of Hans Van 
Ripper, and it was altogether such an apparition as is sel- 
dom to be met with in broad daylight. 15 

It was, as I have said, a fine autumnal day, the sky was 
clear and serene, and nature wore that rich and golden 
livery which we always associate with the idea of abun- 
dance. The forests had put on their sober brown and 
yellow, while some trees of the tenderer kind had been 20 
nipped by the frosts into brilliant dyes of orange, purple, 
and scarlet. Streaming files of wild ducks began to make 
their appearance high in the air ; the bark of the squirrel 
might be heard from the groves of beech and hickory nuts, 
and the pensive whistle of the quail at intervals from the 25 
neighbouring stubble-field. 

The small birds were taking their farewell banquets. 
In the fullness of their revelry, they fluttered, chirping 
and frolicking, from bush to bush, and tree to tree, 
capricious from the very profusion and variety around 3° 



240 The Sketch-Book 

them. There was the honest cockrobin, the favourite 
game of stripling sportsmen, with its loud querulous notes ; 
and the twittering blackbirds flying in sable clouds ; and 
the golden-winged woodpecker, with his crimson crest, 
5 his broad black gorget, and splendid plumage ; and the 
cedar-bird, with its red-tipt wings and yellow-tipt tail, and 
its little monteiro 1 cap of feathers ; and the blue jay, that 
noisy coxcomb, in his gay light-blue coat and white under- 
clothes, screaming and chattering, nodding and bobbing 

10 and bowing, and pretending to be on good terms with 
every songster of the grove. 

As Ichabod jogged slowly on his way, his eye, ever open 
to every symptom of culinary abundance, ranged with 
delight over the treasures of jolly autumn. On all sides 

15 he beheld vast store of apples ; some hanging in oppres- 
sive opulence on the trees ; some gathered into baskets 
and barrels for the market ; others heaped up in rich 
piles for the cider-press. Farther on he beheld great fields 
of Indian corn, with its golden ears peeping from their 

20 leafy coverts, and holding out the promise of cakes and 
hasty-pudding ; and the yellow pumpkins lying beneath 
them, turning up their fair round bellies to the sun, and giving 
ample prospects of the most luxurious of pies; and anon 
he passed the fragrant buckwheat fields, breathing the 

25 odor of the beehive, and as he beheld them, soft anticipa- 
tions stole over his mind of dainty slapjacks, well buttered, 
and garnished with honey or treacle, by the delicate little 
dimpled hand of Katrina Van Tassel. 

Thus feeding his mind with many sweet thoughts and 
1 Mountaineer's. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 241 

" sugared suppositions," * he journeyed along the sides of a 
range of hills which look out upon some of the goodliest 
scenes of the mighty Hudson. The sun gradually wheeled 
his broad disk down into the west. The wide bosom of 
the Tappan Zee lay motionless and glossy, excepting that 5 
here and there a gentle undulation waved and pro- 
longed the blue shadow of the distant mountain. A few 
amber clouds floated in the sky, without a breath of air to 
move them. The horizon was of a fine golden tint, chang- 
ing gradually into a pure apple-green, and from that into 10 
the deep blue of the mid-heaven. A slanting ray lingered 
on the woody crests of the precipices that overhung some 
parts of the river, giving greater depth to the dark-grey 
and purple of their rocky sides. A sloop was loitering in 
the distance, dropping slowly down with the tide, her sail 15 
hanging uselessly against the mast ; and as the reflection of 
the sky gleamed along the still water, it seemed as if the 
vessel was suspended in the air. 

It was toward evening that Ichabod arrived at the castle 
of the Heer Van Tassel, which he found thronged with the 20 
pride and flower of the adjacent country. Old farmers, 
a spare leathern-faced race, in homespun coats and 
breeches, blue stockings, huge shoes, and magnificent 
pewter buckles. Their brisk withered little dames, in 
close crimped caps, long-waisted shortgowns, homespun 25 
petticoats, with scissors and pincushions, and gay calico 
pockets hanging on the outside. Buxom lasses, almost as 
antiquated as their mothers, excepting where a straw hat, 
a fine ribbon, or perhaps a white frock, gave symptoms of 

1 Imaginings. 

THE SKETCHBOOK ■ 1 6 



242 The Sketch-Book 

city innovation. The sons, in short square-skirted coats 
with rows of stupendous brass buttons, and their hair gen- 
erally queued in the fashion of the times, especially if they 
could procure an eel-skin for the purpose, it being es- 

5 teemed, throughout the country, as a potent nourisher and 
strengthener of the hair. 

Brom Bones, however, was the hero of the scene, hav- 
ing come to the gathering on his favourite steed, Dare- 
devil, a creature, like himself, full of mettle and mischief, 

10 and which no one but himself could manage. He was, 
in fact, noted for preferring vicious animals, given to all 
kinds of tricks, which kept the rider in constant risk of 
his neck, for he held a tractable well-broken horse as 
unworthy of a lad of spirit. 

15 Fain would I pause to dwell upon the world of charms 
that burst upon the enraptured gaze of my hero, as he 
entered the state parlour of Van Tassel's mansion. Not 
those of the bevy of buxom lasses, with their luxurious 
display of red and white ; but the ample charms of a 

20 genuine Dutch country tea-table, in the sumptuous time 
of autumn. Such heaped-up platters of cakes of various 
and almost indescribable kinds, known only to experienced 
Dutch housewives ! There was the doughty doughnut, 
the tenderer oly koek, 1 and the crisp and crumbling 

25 cruller ; sweet cakes and short cakes, ginger-cakes and 
honey-cakes, and the whole family of cakes. And then 
there were apple-pies and peach-pies and pumpkin-pies ; 
besides slices of ham and smoked beef; and moreover 
delectable dishes of preserved plums, and peaches, and 
1 A round fried cake, ' oil-cake. ' 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 243 

pears, and quinces; not to mention broiled shad and 
roasted chickens ; together with bowls of milk and cream, 
all mingled higgledy-piggledy, pretty much as I have 
enumerated them, with the motherly tea-pot sending up 
its clouds of vapour from the mist — Heaven bless the 5 
mark ! I want breath and time to discuss this banquet 
as it deserves, and am too eager to get on with my story. 
Happily, Ichabod Crane was not in so great a hurry as his 
historian, but did ample justice to every dainty. 

He was a kind and thankful creature, whose heart 10 
dilated in proportion as his skin was filled with good 
cheer ; and whose spirits rose with eating as some men's 
do with drink. He could not help, too, rolling his large 
eyes round him as he ate, and chuckling with the possi- 
bility that he might one day be lord of all this scene 15 
of almost unimaginable luxury and splendour. Then, 
he thought, how soon he'd turn his back upon the old 
school-house ; snap his fingers in the face of Hans Van 
Ripper, and every other niggardly patron, and kick any 
itinerant pedagogue out-of-doors that should dare to call 20 
him comrade ! 

Old Baltus Van Tassel moved about among his guests 
with a face dilated with content and good-humour, round 
and jolly as the harvest moon. His hospitable attentions 
were brief, but expressive, being confined to a shake of 25 
the hand, a slap on the shoulder, a loud laugh, and a 
pressing invitation to " fall to, and help themselves." 

And now the sound of the music from the common 
room, or hall, summoned to the dance. The musician 
was an old grey-headed negro, who had been the itinerant 30 



244 The Sketch-Book 

orchestra of the neighbourhood for more than half a cen- 
tury. His instrument was as old and battered as himself. 
The greater part of the time he scraped on two or three 
strings, accompanying every movement of the bow with a 

5 motion of the head ; bowing almost to the ground, and 
stamping with his foot whenever a fresh couple were to 
start. 

Ichabod prided himself upon his dancing as much as 
upon his vocal powers. Not a limb, not a fibre about 

10 him was idle ; and to have seen his loosely hung frame 
in full motion, and clattering about the room, you would 
have thought Saint Vitus himself, that blessed patron of 
the dance, was figuring before you in person. He was 
the admiration of all the negroes ; who, having gathered, 

15 of all ages and sizes, from the farm and the neighbour- 
hood, stood forming a pyramid of shining black faces at 
every door and window, gazing with delight at the scene,, 
rolling their white eyeballs, and showing grinning rows of 
ivory from ear to ear. How could the flogger of urchins 

20 be otherwise than animated and joyous? the lady of his 
heart was his partner in the dance,- and smiling gra- 
ciously in reply to all his amorous oglings ; while Brom 
Bones, sorely smitten with love and jealousy, sat brood- 
ing by himself in one corner. 

25 When the dance was at an end, Ichabod was attracted 
to a knot of the sager folks, who, with old Van Tassel, 
sat smoking at one end of the piazza, gossiping over 
former times, and drawing out long stories about the 
war. 

30 This neighbourhood, at the time of which I am speak- 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 245 

ing, was one of those highly favoured places which abound 
with chronicle and great men. The British and Amer- 
ican line had run near it during the war ; it had, there- 
fore, been the scene of marauding, and infested with 
refugees, cow-boys, and all kinds of border chivalry. 5 
Just sufficient time had elapsed to enable each story- 
teller to dress up his tale with a little becoming fiction, 
and, in the indistinctness of his recollection, to make 
himself the hero of every exploit. 

There was the story of Doffue Martling, a large blue- 10 
bearded Dutchman, who had nearly taken a British frigate 
with an old iron nine-pounder from a mud breastwork, 
only that his gun burst at the sixth discharge. And there 
was an old gentleman who shall be nameless, being too 
rich a mynheer 1 to be lightly mentioned, who, in the 15 
battle of Whiteplains, being an excellent master of de- 
fence, parried a musket ball with a small sword, inso- 
much that he absolutely felt it whiz round the blade, and 
glance off at the hilt ; in proof of which he was ready at 
any time to show the sword, with the hilt a little bent. 20 
There were several more that had been equally great in 
the field, not one of whom but was persuaded that he 
had a considerable hand in bringing the war to a happy 
termination. 

But all these were nothing to the tales of ghosts and 25 
apparitions that succeeded. The neighbourhood is rich 
in legendary treasures of the kind. Local tales and su- 
perstitions thrive best in these sheltered long-settled re- 
treats ; but are trampled underfoot by the shifting throng 
1 Gentleman. 



246 The Sketch-Book 

that forms the population of most of our country places 
Besides, there is no encouragement for ghosts in most of 
our villages, for they have scarcely had time to finish 
their first nap, and turn themselves in their graves, before 

5 their surviving friends have travelled away from the 
neighbourhood ; so that when they turn out at night tc 
walk their rounds, they have no acquaintance left to cal 
upon. This is perhaps the reason why we so seldom 
hear of ghosts, except in our long-established Dutch 

10 communities. 

The immediate cause, however, of the prevalence ol 
supernatural stories in these parts was doubtless owing to 
the vicinity of Sleepy Hollow. There was a contagion 
in the very air that blew from that haunted region ; it 

15 breathed forth an atmosphere of dreams and fancies in- 
fecting all the land. Several of the Sleepy Hollow people 
were present at Van Tassel's, and, as usual, were doling 
out their wild and wonderful legends. Many dismal tales 
were told about funeral trains, and mourning cries and 

2owailings heard and seen about the great tree where the 
unfortunate Major Andre" was taken, and which stood in 
the neighbourhood. Some mention was made also of 
the woman in white, that haunted the dark glen at Raven 
Rock, and was often heard to shriek on winter nights be- 

25 fore a storm, having perished there in the snow. The 
chief part of the stories, however, turned upon the fa- 
vourite spectre of Sleepy Hollow, the headless horseman, 
who had been heard several times of late, patrolling the 
country ; and, it was said, tethered his horse nightly 

30 among the graves in the churchyard. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 247 

I The sequestered situation of this church seems always 
to have made it a favourite haunt of troubled spirits. It 
stands on a knoll, surrounded by locust trees and lofty 

I elms, from among which its decent whitewashed walls 
shine modestly forth, like Christian purity beamings 
through the shades of retirement. A gentle slope de- 

, scends from it to a silver sheet of water, bordered by 

I high trees, between which, peeps may be caught at the 
blue hills of the Hudson. To look upon its grass-grown 

J yard, where the sunbeams seem to sleep so quietly, one 10 
would think that there at least the dead might rest in 
peace. On one side of the church extends a wide 
woody dell, along which raves a large brook among broken 
rocks and trunks of fallen trees. Over a deep black part 
of the stream, not far from the church, was formerly 15 
thrown a wooden bridge ; the road that led to it, and the 
bridge itself, were thickly shaded by overhanging trees, 
which cast a gloom about it, even in the daytime, but 
occasioned a fearful darkness at night. This was one of 
the favourite haunts of the headless horseman ; and the 20 
place where he was most frequently encountered. The 
tale w r as told of old Brouwer, a most heretical disbeliever 
in ghosts, how he met the horseman returning from his 
foray * into Sleepy Hollow, and was obliged to get up 
behind him ; how they gallopped over bush and brake, 25 

j over hill and swamp, until they reached the bridge ; 
when the horseman suddenly turned into a skeleton, 
threw old Brouwer into the brook, and sprang away over 
the tree tops with a clap of thunder. 
1 Raid. 



248 The Sketch-Book 

This story was immediately matched by a thrice mar- 
vellous adventure of Brom Bones, who made light of the 
gallopping Hessian as an arrant jockey. He affirmed that, 
on returning one night from the neighbouring village of 

5 Sing Sing, he had been overtaken by this midnight 
trooper ; that he had offered to race with him for a bow 
of punch, and should have won it too, for Daredevil beat 
the goblin horse all hollow, but, just as they came to the 
church bridge, the Hessian bolted, and vanished in a flash 

10 of fire. 

All these tales, told in that drowsy undertone with 
which men talk in the dark, the countenances of the lis 
teners only now and then receiving a casual gleam from the 
glare of a pipe, sank deep in the mind of Ichabod. He 

15 repaid them in kind with large extracts from his invalua- 
ble author, Cotton Mather, and added many marvellous 
events that had taken place in his native State of Con- 
necticut, and fearful sights which he had seen in his 
nightly walks about the Sleepy Hollow. 

20 The revel now gradually broke up. The old farmers 
gathered together their families in their, wagons, and were 
heard for some time rattling along the hollow roads, and 
over the distant hills. Some of the damsels mounted on 
pillions 1 behind their favourite swains, and their light- 

25 hearted laughter, mingling with the clatter of hoofs, 
echoed along the silent woodlands, sounding fainter and 
fainter until they gradually died away — and the late scene 
of noise and frolic was all silent and deserted. Ichabod 
only lingered behind, according to the custom of country 
1 A sort of additional saddle, enabling a horse to carry double. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 249 

lovers, to have a tete-a-tete 1 with the heiress, fully con- 
vinced that he was now on the high road to success. 
What passed at this interview I will not pretend to say, 
for in fact I do not know. Something, however, I fear 
me, must have gone wrong, for he certainly sallied forth, 5 
after no very great interval, with an air quite desolate and 
chop-fallen. — Oh, these women ! these women ! Could 
that girl have been playing off any of her coquettish tricks ? 
— Was her encouragement of her poor pedagpgue all a 
mere sham to secure her conquest of his rival ? — Heaven 10 
only knows, not I ! — Let it suffice to say, Ichabod stole 
forth with the air of one who had been sacking a hen- 
roost, rather than a fair lady's heart. Without looking 
to the right or left to notice the scene of rural wealth 
on which he had so often gloated, he went straight to 15 
the stable, and with several hearty cuffs and kicks, roused his 
steed most uncourteously from the comfortable quarters 
in which he was soundly sleeping, dreaming of mountains 
of corn and oats, and whole valleys of timothy and clover. 

It was the very witching time of night that Ichabod, 20 
heavy-hearted and crestfallen, pursued his travels home- 
wards, along the sides of the lofty hills which rise about 
Tarry Town, and which he had traversed so cheerily in the 
afternoon. The hour was as dismal as himself. Far be- 
low him, the Tappan Zee spread its dusky and indistinct 25 
waste of waters, with here and there the tall mast of a 
sloop riding quietly at anchor under the land. In the 
dead hush of midnight, he could even hear the barking of 
the watch-dog from the opposite shore of the Hudson ; 
1 Conversation of two persons. 



250 The Sketch-Book 

but it was so vague and faint as only to give an idea of 
his distance from this faithful companion of man. Now 
and then, too, the long-drawn crowing of a cock, acci- 
dentally awakened, would sound far, far off, from some 

5 farm-house away among the hills — but it was like a dream- 
ing sound in his ear. No signs of life occurred near him, 
but occasionally the melancholy chirp of a cricket, or per- 
haps the guttural twang of a bull-frog, from a neighbouring 
marsh, as if sleeping uncomfortably, and turning suddenly 

10 in his bed. 

All the stories of ghosts and goblins that he had heard 
in the afternoon, now came crowding upon his recollection. 
The night grew darker and darker ; the stars seemed to 
sink deeper in the sky, and driving clouds occasionally 

15 hid them from his sight. He had never felt so lonely and 
dismal. He was, moreover, approaching the very place 
where many of the scenes of the ghost-stories had been 
laid. In the centre of the road stood an enormous tulip 
tree, which towered like a giant above all the other trees 

20 of the neighbourhood, and formed a kind of landmark. 
Its limbs were gnarled, and fantastic, large enough to form 
trunks for ordinary trees, twisting down almost to the 
earth, and rising again into the air. It was connected 
with the tragical story of the unfortunate Andr£, who had 

25 been taken prisoner hard by ; and was universally known 
by the name of Major Andrews tree. The common peo- 
ple regarded it with a mixture of respect and superstition, 
partly out of sympathy for the fate of its ill-starred name- 
sake, and partly from the tales of strange sights and dole- 

30 ful lamentations told concerning it. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 251 

As Ichabod approached this fearful tree, he began to 
whistle : he thought his whistle was answered, — it was 
but a blast sweeping sharply through the dry branches. 
As he approached a little nearer, he thought he saw some- 
thing white, hanging in the midst of a tree, — he paused 5 
and ceased whistling ; but on looking more narrowly, per- 
ceived that it was a place where the tree had been scathed 
by lightning, and the white wood laid bare. Suddenly he 
heard a groan, — his teeth chattered and his knees smote 
against the saddle : it was but the rubbing of one huge 10 
bough upon another, as they were swayed about by the 
breeze. He passed the tree in safety ; but new perils lay 
before him. 

About two hundred yards from the tree a small brook 
crossed the road, and ran into a marshy and thickly wooded 15 
glen, known by the name of Wiley's swamp. A few rough 
logs, laid side by side, served for a bridge over this stream. 
On that side of the road where the brook entered the 
wood, a group of oaks and chestnuts, matted thick with 
wild grape-vines, threw a cavernous gloom over it. To 20 
pass this bridge was the severest trial. It was at this 
identical spot that the unfortunate Andre was captured 
and under the covert of those chestnuts and vines were the 
sturdy yeomen concealed who surprised him. This has 
ever since been considered a haunted stream, and fearful 25 
are the feelings of the school-boy who has to pass it alone 
after dark. 

Ashe approached the stream, his heart began to thump ; 
he summoned up, however, all his resolution, gave his 
horse half a score of kicks in the ribs, and attempted to 30 



252 The Sketch-Book 

dash briskly across the bridge ; but instead of starting 
forward, the perverse old animal made a lateral movement, 
and ran broadside against the fence. Ichabod, whose 
fears increased with the delay, jerked the reins on the 
5 other side, and kicked lustily with the contrary foot : it 
was all in vain ; his steed started, it is true, but it was 
only to plunge to the opposite side of the road into a 
thicket of brambles and alder bushes. The schoolmaster 
now bestowed both whip and heel upon the starveling 

10 ribs of old Gunpowder, who dashed forward, snuffling 
and snorting, but came to a stand just by the bridge, with 
a suddenness that had nearly sent his rider sprawling 
over his head. Just at this moment a plashy tramp by 
the side of the bridge caught the sensitive ear of Ichabod. 

15 In the dark shadow of the grove, on the margin of the 
brook, he beheld something huge, misshapen, black, and 
towering. It stirred not, but seemed gathered up in the 
gloom, like some gigantic monster ready to spring upon 
the traveller. 

20 The hair of the affrighted pedagogue rose upon his 
head with terror. What was to be done ? To turn and fly 
was now too late; and besides, what chance was there of 
escaping ghost or goblin, if such it was, which could ride 
upon the wings of the wind ? Summoning up, therefore, a 

25 show of courage, he demanded in stammering accents — 
"Who are you?" He received no reply. He repeated 
his demand in a still more agitated voice. Still there 
was no answer. Once more he cudgelled the sides of the 
inflexible Gunpowder, and, shutting his eyes, broke forth 

30 with involuntary fervour into a psalm-tune. Just then the 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 253 

shadowy object of alarm put itself in motion, and, with 
a scramble and a bound, stood at once in the middle of 
the road. Though the night was dark and dismal, yet 
the form of the unknown might now in some degree be 
ascertained. He appeared to be a horseman of large 5 
dimensions, and mounted on a black horse of powerful 
frame. He made no offer of molestation or sociability, but 
kept aloof on one side of the road, jogging along on the 
blind side of old Gunpowder, who had now got over his 
fright and waywardness. 10 

Ichabod, who had no relish for this strange midnight 
companion, and bethought himself of the adventure of 
Brom Bones with the Gallopping Hessian, now quickened 
his steed; in hopes of leaving him behind. The stranger, 
however, quickened his horse to an equal pace. Ichabod 15 
pulled up, and fell into a walk, thinking to lag behind, — 
the other did the same. His heart began to sink within 
him ; he endeavoured to resume his psalm-tune, but his 
parched tongue clove to the roof of his mouth, and he 
could not utter a stave. There was something in the 20 
moody and dogged silence of this pertinacious companion, 
that was mysterious and appalling. It was soon fearfully 
accounted for. On mounting a rising ground, which 
brought the figure of his fellow-traveller in relief against 
the sky, gigantic in height, and muffled in a cloak, Ichabod 25 
was horror-struck, on perceiving that he was headless ! — 
but his horror was still more increased, on observing that 
the head, which should have rested on his shoulders, was 
carried before him on the pommel of the saddle : his 
terror rose to desperation ; he rained a shower of kicks 30 



254 The Sketch- Book 

and blows upon Gunpowder, hoping, by a sudden move- 
ment, to give his companion the slip, — but the spectre 
started full jump with him. Away then they dashed, 
through thick and thin ; stones flying, and sparks flashing 

5 at every bound. Ichabod's flimsy garments fluttered in 
the air, as he stretched his long lank body away over his 
horse's head, in the eagerness of his flight. 

They had now reached the road which turns off to 
Sleepy Hollow ; but Gunpowder, who seemed possessed 

10 with a demon, instead of keeping up it, made an opposite 
turn, and plunged headlong downhill to the left. This 
road leads through a sandy hollow, shaded by trees for 
about a quarter of a mile, where it crosses the bridge 
famous in goblin story, and just beyond swells the green 

15 knoll on which stands the whitewashed church. 

As yet the panic of the steed had given his unskilful 
rider an apparent advantage in the chase ; but just as he 
had got half-way through the hollow, the girths of the 
saddle gave way, and he felt it slipping from under him. 

20 He seized it by the pommel, and endeavoured to hold it 
firm, but in vain ; and had just time to save himself by 
clasping old Gunpowder round the neck, when the saddle 
fell to the earth, and he heard it trampled underfoot by 
his pursuer. For a moment the terror of Hans Van 

25 Ripper's wrath passed across his mind — for it was his 
Sunday saddle ; but this was no time for petty fears ; the 
goblin was hard on his haunches ; and (unskilful rider 
that he was !) he had much ado to maintain his seat ; 
sometimes slipping on one side, sometimes on another, 

30 and sometimes jolted on the high ridge of his horse's 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 255 

backbone, with a violence that he verily feared would 
cleave him asunder. 

An opening in the trees now cheered him with the 
hopes that the church bridge was at hand. The wavering 
reflection of a silver star in the bosom of the brook told 5 
him that he was not mistaken. He saw the walls of the 
church dimly glaring under the trees beyond. He rec- 
ollected the place where Brom Bones's ghostly competitor 
had disappeared. " If I can but reach that bridge," 
thought Ichabod, " I am safe." Just then he heard 10 
the black steed panting and blowing close behind him ; 
he even fancied that he felt his hot breath. Another 
convulsive kick in the ribs ; and old Gunpowder sprang 
upon the bridge ; he thundered over the resounding 
planks ; he gained the opposite side ; and now Ichabod 15 
cast a look behind to see if his pursuer should vanish, 
according to rule, in a flash of fire and brimstone. Just 
then he saw the goblin rising in his stirrups, and in the 
very act of hurling his head at him. Ichabod endeavoured 
to dodge the horrible missile, but too late. It encountered 20 
his cranium with a tremendous crash, — he was tumbled 
headlong into the dust, and Gunpowder, the black steed, 
and the goblin rider, passed by like a whirlwind. 

The next morning the old horse was found without his 
saddle, and with the bridle under his feet, soberly crop- 25 
ping the grass at his master's gate. Ichabod did not 
make his appearance at breakfast ; — dinner-hour came, 
but no Ichabod. The boys assembled at the school-house, 
and strolled idly about the banks of the brook ; but no 
schoolmaster. Hans Van Ripper now began to feel some 3 n 



256 The Sketch-Book 

uneasiness about the fate of poor Ichabod, and his saddle. 
An inquiry was set on foot, and after diligent investigation 
they came upon his traces. In one part of the road leading 
to the church was found the saddle trampled in the dirt ; 
5 the tracks of horses' hoofs deeply dented in the road, 
and evidently at furious speed, were traced to the bridge, 
beyond which, on the bank of a broad part of the brook, 
where the water ran deep and black, was found the 
hat of the unfortunate Ichabod, and close beside it a 

10 shattered pumpkin. 

The brook was searched, but the body of the school- 
master was not to be discovered. Hans Van Ripper, as 
executor of his estate, examined the bundle which con- 
tained all his worldly effects. They consisted of two shirts 

15 and a half; two stocks for the neck; a pair or two of 
worsted stockings ; an old pair of corduroy small-clothes ; 1 
a rusty razor ; a book of psalm- tunes, full of dogs' ears ; 2 
and a broken pitchpipe. 3 As to the books and furniture 
of the school-house, they belonged to the community, 

20 excepting Cotton Mather's History of Witchcraft, a 
New England Almanac, and a book of dreams and 
fortune- telling ; in which last was a sheet of foolscap much 
scribbled and blotted in several fruitless attempts to make 
a copy of verses in honour of the heiress of Van Tassel. 

25 These magic books and the poetic scrawl were forthwith 
consigned to the flames by Hans Van Ripper ; who from 
that time forward determined to send his children no 
more to school ; observing, that he never knew any good 

1 Knee-breeches. 2 Turned-down corners. 

3 Tuning-pipe. 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 257 

come of this same reading and writing. Whatever money 
the schoolmaster possessed, and he had received his 
quarter's pay but a day or two before, he must have had 
about his person at the time of his disappearance. 

The mysterious event caused much speculation at the 5 
church on the following Sunday. Knots of gazers and 
gossips were collected in the churchyard, at the bridge, 
and at the spot where the hat and pumpkin had been 
found. The stories of Brouwer, of Bones, and a whole 
budget of others, were called to mind ; and when they 10 
had diligently considered them all, and compared them 
with the symptoms of the present case, they shook their 
heads, and came to the conclusion that Ichabod had 
been carried off by the Gallopping Hessian. As he was a 
bachelor, and in nobody's debt, nobody troubled his head 15 
any more about him. The school was removed to a 
different quarter of the Hollow, and another pedagogue 
reigned in his stead. 

It is true, an old farmer, who had been down to New 
York on a visit several years after, and from whom this 20 
account of the ghostly adventure was received, brought 
home the intelligence that Ichabod Crane was still alive ; 
that he had left the neighbourhood, partly through fear 
of the goblin and Hans Van Ripper, and partly in 
mortification at having been suddenly dismissed by the 25 
heiress; that he had changed his quarters to a distant 
part of the country ; had kept school and studied law at 
the same time, had been admitted to the bar, turned 
politician, electioneered, written for the newspapers, and 
finally had been made a justice of the Ten Pound Court. 30 

THE SKETCH-BOOK 1 7 



258 The Sketch-Book 

Brom Bones too, who shortly after his rival's disappear- 
ance conducted the blooming Katrina in triumph to the 
altar, was observed to look exceedingly knowing when- 
ever the story of Ichabod was related, and always burst 
5 into a hearty laugh at the mention of the pumpkin ; which 
led some to suspect that he knew more about the matter 
than he chose to tell. 

The old country wives, however, who are the best 
judges of these matters, maintain to this day that Icha- 

10 bod was spirited away by supernatural means ; and it is a 
favourite story often told about the neighbourhood round 
the winter evening fire. The bridge became more than 
ever an object of superstitious awe, and that may be the 
reason why the road has been altered of late years, so as 

15 to approach the church by the border of the mill-pond. 
The school-house, being deserted, soon fell to decay, and 
was reported to be haunted by the ghost of the unfortu- 
nate pedagogue; and the ploughboy, loitering homeward 
of a still summer evening, has often fancied his voice at 

20 a distance, chanting a melancholy psalm-tune among the 
tranquil solitudes of Sleepy Hollow. 



POSTSCRIPT 

FOUND IN THE HANDWRITING OF MR. KNICKERBOCKER 

The preceding Tale is given, almost in the precise words in 

25 which I heard it related at a Corporation meeting of the ancient 

city of Manhattoes, at which were present many of its sagest and 

most illustrious burghers. The narrator was a pleasant, shabby^ 

gentlemanly old fellow, in pepper-and-salt clothes, with a sadly 



The Legend of Sleepy Hollow 259 

humorous face; and one whom I strongly suspected of being poor, 
— he made such efforts to be entertaining. When his story was 
concluded, there was much laughter and approbation, particularly 
from two or three deputy aldermen, who had been asleep the 
greater part of the time. There was, however, one tall, dry-looking 5 
old gentleman, with beetling eyebrows, who maintained a grave and 
rather severe face throughout; now and then folding his arms, in- 
clining his head, and looking down upon the floor, as if turning a 
doubt over in his mind. He was one of your wary men, who never 
laugh, but on good grounds — when they have reason and the law 10 
on their side. When the mirth of the rest of the company had 
subsided and silence was restored, he leaned one arm on the elbow 
of his chair, and sticking the other akimbo, demanded, with a slight 
but exceedingly sage motion of the head, and contraction of the 
brow, what was the moral of the story, and what it went to prove? 15 

The story-teller, who was just putting a glass of wine to his lips, 
as a refreshment after his toils, paused for a moment, looked at his 
inquirer with an air of infinite deference, and, lowering the glass 
slowly to the table, observed, that the story was intended most 
logically to prove : — 20 

" That there is no situation in life but has its advantages and 
pleasures — provided we will but take a joke as we find it : 

" That, therefore, he that runs races with goblin troopers is 
likely to have rough riding of it. 

" Ergo, for a country schoolmaster to be refused the hand of a 25 
Dutch heiress, is a certain step to high preferment in the state." 

The cautious old gentleman knit his brows tenfold closer after 
this explanation, being sorely puzzled by the ratiocination of the 
syllogism ; while, methought, the one in pepper-and-salt eyed him 
with something of a triumphant leer. At length he observed, that 3° 
all this was very well, but still he thought the story a little on the 
extravagant — there were one or two points on which he had his 
doubts. 

"Faith, sir," replied the story-teller, "as to that matter, I don't 
believe one half of it myself.' ' D. K. 35 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

A POSTHUMOUS WRITING OF DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER 

By Woden, God of Saxons, 

From whence comes Wensday, that is Wodensday. 
Truth is a thing that ever I will keep 
5 Unto thylke day in which I creep into 

My sepulchre — Cartwright. 

[The following tale was found among the papers of the late 
Diedrich Knickerbocker, an old gentleman of New York, who 
was very curious in the Dutch history of the province, and the 

10 manners of the descendants from its primitive settlers. His his- 
torical researches, however, did not lie so much among books as 
among men; for the former are lamentably scanty on his favourite 
topics; whereas he found the old burghers, and still more their 
wives, rich in that legendary lore so invaluable to true history. 

15 Whenever, therefore, he happened upon a genuine Dutch family, 
snugly shut up in its low-roofed farm-house, under a spreading 
sycamore, he looked upon it as a little clasped volume of black- 
letter, and studied it with the zeal of a book- worm. 

The result of all these researches was a history of the province 

20 during the reign of the Dutch governors, which he published some 
years since. There have been various opinions as to the literary 
character of his work, and, to tell the truth, it is not a whit better 
than it should be. Its chief merit is its scrupulous accuracy, which 
indeed was a little questioned on its first appearance, but has since 

25 been completely established ; and it is now admitted into all his- 
torical collections as a book of unquestionable authority. 

The old gentleman died shortly after the publication of his work; 

260 



Rip Van Winkle 261 

and now that he is dead and gone, it cannot do much harm to his 
memory to say that his time might have been much better em- 
ployed in weightier labours. He, however, was apt to ride his 
hobby his own way; and though it did now and then kick up the 
dust a little in the eyes of his neighbours, and grieve the spirit of 5 
some friends, for whom he felt the truest deference and affection, 
yet his errors and follies are remembered " more in sorrow than in 
anger," and it begins to be suspected that he never intended to 
injure or offend. But however his memory may be appreciated 
by critics, it is still held dear by many folk whose good opinion is 10 
well worth having; particularly by certain biscuit-bakers, who 
have gone so far as to imprint his likeness on their New Year 
cakes; and have thus given him a chance for immortality, almost 
equal to the being stamped on a Waterloo Medal, or a Queen 
Anne's Farthing.] 15 

Whoever has made a voyage up the Hudson must re- 
member the Kaatskill Mountains. They are a dismem- 
bered branch of the great Appalachian family, and are 
seen away to the west of the river, swelling up to a noble 
height, and lording it over the surrounding country. 20 
Every change of season, every change of weather, indeed, 
every hour of the day, produces some change in the 
magical hues and shapes of these mountains, and they 
are regarded by all the good wives, far and near, as perfect 
barometers. When the weather is fair and settled, they 25 
are clothed in blue and purple, and print their bold out- 
lines on the clear evening sky ; but sometimes, when the 
rest of the landscape is cloudless, they will gather a hood 
of grey vapours about their summits, which, in the last 
rays of the setting sun, will glow and light up like a 3° 
crown of glory. 



262 The Sketch-Book 

At the foot of these fairy mountains, the voyager may 
have descried the light smoke curling up from a village, 
whose shingle-roofs gleam among the trees, just where 
the blue tints of the upland melt away into the fresh 
5 green of the nearer landscape. It is a little village, of 
great antiquity, having been founded by some of the 
Dutch colonists in the early times of the province, just 
about the beginning of the government of the good 
Peter Stuyvesant, (may he rest in peace !) and there were 

10 some of the houses of the original settlers standing 
within a few years, built of small yellow bricks brought 
from Holland, having latticed windows and gable fronts, 
surmounted with weathercocks. 

In that same village, and in one of these very houses 

15 (which, to tell the precise truth, was sadly time-worn and 
weather-beaten), there lived, many years since, while the 
country was yet a province of Great Britain, a simple, 
good-natured fellow, of the name of Rip Van Winkle. 
He was a descendant of the Van Winkles who figured so 

20 gallantly in the chivalrous days of Peter Stuyvesant, and 
accompanied him to the siege of Fort Christina. He 
inherited, however, but little of the martial character of 
his ancestors. I have observed that he was a simple, 
good-natured man ; he was, moreover, a kind neighbour, 

25 and an obedient, hen-pecked husband. Indeed, to the 
latter circumstance might be owing that meekness of 
spirit which gained him such universal popularity; for 
those men are most apt to be obsequious and conciliat- 
ing abroad, who are under the discipline of shrews at 

30 home. Their tempers, doubtless, are rendered pliant 



Rip Van Winkle 263 

and malleable in the fiery furnace of domestic tribula- 
tion ; and a curtain-lecture is worth all the sermons in the 
world for teaching the virtues of patience and long-suffer- 
ing. A termagant wife may, therefore, in some respects, 
be considered a tolerable blessing ; and, if so, Rip Van 5 
Winkle was thrice blessed. 

Certain it is, that he was a great favourite among all 
the good wives of the village, who, as usual with the 
amiable sex, took his part in all family squabbles ; and 
never failed, whenever they talked those matters over in 10 
their evening gossipings, to lay all the blame on Dame 
Van Winkle. The children of the village, too, would 
shout with joy whenever he approached. He assisted 
at their sports, made their playthings, taught them to fly 
kites and shoot marbles, and told them long stories of 15 
ghosts, witches, and Indians. Whenever he went dodg- 
ing about the village, he was surrounded by a troop of 
them, hanging on his skirts, 1 clambering on his back, and 
playing a thousand tricks on him with impunity ; and not 
a dog would bark at him throughout the neighbourhood. 20 

The great error in Rip's composition was an insuper- 
able aversion to all kinds of profitable labour. It could 
not be from the want of assiduity or perseverance \ for 
he would sit on a wet rock, with a rod as long and heavy 
as a Tartar's lance, and fish all day without a murmur, 25 
even though he should not be encouraged by a single 
nibble. He would carry a fowling-piece on his shoulder 
for hours together, trudging through woods and swamps, 
and up hill and down dale, to shoot a few squirrels or 
1 Coat-tails. 



264 The Sketch-Book 

wild pigeons. He would never refuse to assist a neigh- 
bour even in the roughest toil, and was a foremost man 
at all country frolics for husking Indian corn, or build- 
ing stone fences ; the women of the village, too, 
5 used to employ him to run their errands, and to do 
such little odd jobs as their less obliging husbands 
would not do for them. In a word, Rip was ready to 
attend to anybody's business but his own ; but as to 
doing family duty, and keeping his farm in order, he 

10 found it impossible. 

In fact, he declared it was of no use to work on his 
farm ; it was the most pestilent little piece of ground in 
the whole country ; everything about it went wrong, and 
would go wrong, in spite of him. His fences were contin- 

15 ually falling to pieces ; his cow would either go astray, or get 
among the cabbages ; weeds were sure to grow quicker in 
his fields than anywhere else ; the rain always made a point 
of setting in just as he had some out-door work to do ; so 
that though his patrimonial estate had dwindled away 

20 under his management, acre by acre, until there was 
little more left than a mere patch of Indian corn and 
potatoes, yet it was the worst conditioned farm in the 
neighbourhood. 

His children, too, were as ragged and wild as if they 

25 belonged to nobody. His son Rip, an urchin begotten 
in his own likeness, promised to inherit the habits, with 
the old clothes, of his father. He was generally seen 
trooping like a colt at his mother's heels, equipped in a 
pair of his father's cast-off galligaskins, 1 which he had 
1 Trousers. 



Rip Van Winkle 265 

much ado to hold up with one hand, as a fine lady does 
her train in bad weather. 

Rip Van Winkle, however, was one of those happy 
mortals, of foolish, well-oiled dispositions, who take the 
world easy, eat white bread or brown, whichever can be 5 
got with least thought or trouble, and would rather starve 
on a penny than work for a pound. If left to himself, he 
would have whistled life away in perfect contentment; 
but his wife kept continually dinning in his ears about 
his idleness, his carelessness, and the ruin he was bring- 10 
ing on his family. Morning, noon, and night, her tongue 
was incessantly going, and everything he said or did was 
sure to produce a torrent of household eloquence. Rip 
had but one way of replying to all lectures of the kind, 
and that, by frequent use, had grown into a habit. He 15 
shrugged his shoulders, shook his head, cast up his eyes, 
but said nothing. This, however, always provoked a 
fresh volley from his wife ; so that he was fain to draw 
off his forces, and take to the outside of the house — the 
only side which, in truth, belongs to a hen-pecked hus- 20 
band. 

Rip's sole domestic adherent was his dog Wolf, who 
was as much hen-pecked as his master ; for Dame Van 
Winkle regarded them as companions in idleness, and even 
looked upon Wolf with an evil eye, as the cause of his 25 
master's going so often astray. True it is, in all points 
of spirit befitting an honourable dog, he was as coura- 
geous an animal as ever scoured the woods ; but what 
courage can withstand the ever-during and all-besetting 
terrors of a woman's tongue? The moment Wolf entered 30 



266 The Sketch-Book 

the house his crest fell, his tail drooped to the ground, 
or curled between his legs, he sneaked about with a gal- 
lows air, casting many a sidelong glance at Dame Van 
Winkle, and at the least flourish of a broomstick or ladle, 
5 he would fly to the door with yelping precipitation. 

Times grew worse and worse with Rip Van Winkle 
as years of matrimony rolled on; a tart temper never 
mellows with age, and a sharp tongue is the only edged 
tool that grows keener with constant use. For a long 

10 while he used to console himself, when driven from 
home, by frequenting a kind of perpetual club of the 
sages, philosophers, and other idle personages of the 
village, which held its sessions on a bench before a small 
inn, designated by a rubicund portrait of His Majesty 

is George the Third. Here they used to sit in the shade 
through a long, lazy summer's day, talking listlessly over 
village gossip, or telling endless sleepy stories about 
nothing. But it would have been worth any statesman's 
money to have heard the profound discussions that some- 

20 times took place, when by chance an old newspaper fell 
into their hands from some passing traveller. How 
solemnly they would listen to the contents, as drawled 
out by Derrick Van Bummel, the schoolmaster, a dapper 
learned little man, who was not to be daunted by the 

25 most gigantic word in the dictionary ; and how sagely 
they would deliberate upon public events some months 
after they had taken place. 

The opinions of this junto 1 were completely controlled 
by Nicholas Vedder, a patriarch of the village, and 
1 Council. 



Rip Van Winkle 267 

landlord of the inn, at the door of which he took his 
seat from morning till night, just moving sufficiently to 
avoid the sun and keep in the shade of a large tree ; so 
that the neighbours could tell the hour by his movements 
as accurately as by a sun-dial. It is true he was rarely 5 
heard to speak, but smoked his pipe incessantly. His ad- 
herents, however (for every great man has his adherents), 
perfectly understood him, and knew how to gather his 
opinions. When anything that was read or related dis- 
pleased him, he was observed to smoke his pipe ve-10 
hemently, and to send forth short, frequent, and angry 
puffs ; but when pleased, he would inhale the smoke 
slowly and tranquilly, and emit it in light and placid 
clouds ; and sometimes, taking the pipe from his mouth, 
and letting the fragrant vapour curl about his nose, would 15 
gravely nod his head in token of perfect approbation. 

From even this stronghold the unlucky Rip was at 
length routed by his termagant wife, who would suddenly 
break in upon the tranquillity of the assemblage and 
call the members all to naught ; nor was that august 20 
personage, Nicholas Vedder himself, sacred from the 
daring tongue of this terrible virago, who charged him 
outright with encouraging her husband in habits of idle- 
ness. 

Poor Rip was at last reduced almost to despair ; and 25 
his only alternative, to escape from the labour of the 
farm and clamour of his wife, was to take gun in hand 
and stroll away into the woods. Here he would some- 
times seat himself at the foot of a tree, and share the 
contents of his wallet with Wolf, with whom he sym-30 



268 The Sketch-Book 

pathized as a fellow-sufferer in persecution. " Poor 
Wolf," he would say, " thy mistress leads thee a dog's 
life of it ; but never mind, my lad, whilst I live thou 
shalt never want a friend to stand by thee ! " Wolf 
5 would wag his tail, look wistfully in his master's face ; 
and if dogs can feel pity, I verily believe he reciprocated 
the sentiment with all his heart. 

In a long ramble of the kind on a fine autumnal day, 
Rip had unconsciously scrambled to one of the highest 

10 parts of the Kaatskill Mountains. He was after his 
favourite sport of squirrel shooting, and the still solitudes 
had echoed and re-echoed with the reports of his gun. 
Panting and fatigued, he threw himself, late in the after- 
noon, on a green knoll, covered with mountain herbage, 

15 that crowned the brow of a precipice. From an opening 
between the trees he could overlook all the lower country 
for many a mile of rich woodland. He saw at a distance 
the lordly Hudson, far, far below him, moving on its silent 
but majestic course, with the reflection of a purple cloud, 

20 or the sail of a lagging bark, here and there sleeping on 
its glassy bosom, and at last losing itself in the blue 
highlands. 

On the other side he looked down into a deep moun- 
tain glen, wild, lonely, and shagged, the bottom filled 

25 with fragments from the impending cliffs, and scarcely 
lighted by the reflected rays of the setting sun. For 
some time Rip lay musing on this scene ; evening was 
gradually advancing ; the mountains began to throw their 
long blue shadows over the valleys ; he saw that it would 

30 be dark long before he could reach the village, and he 



Rip Van Winkle 269 

heaved a heavy sigh when he thought of encountering 
the terrors of Dame Van Winkle. 

As he was about to descend, he heard a voice from a 
distance, hallooing, " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle! " 
He looked round, but could see nothing but a crow wing- 5 
ing its solitary flight across the mountain. He thought 
his fancy must have deceived him, and turned again to 
descend, when he heard the same cry ring through the 
still evening air : " Rip Van Winkle ! Rip Van Winkle ! " 
— at the same time Wolf bristled up his back, and giv- 10 
ing a low growl, skulked to his master's side, looking 
fearfully down into the glen. Rip now felt a vague 
apprehension stealing over him; he looked anxiously 
in the same direction, and perceived a strange figure 
slowly toiling up the rocks, and bending under the weight 15 
of something he carried on his back. He was surprised 
to see any human being in this lonely and unfrequented 
place ; but supposing it to be some one of the neighbour- 
hood in need of his assistance, he hastened down to 
yield it. 20 

On nearer approach he was still more surprised at the 
singularity of the stranger's appearance. He was a short, 
square-built old fellow, with thick bushy hair, and a 
grizzled beard. His dress was of the antique Dutch 
fashion, — a cloth jerkin 1 strapped round the waist — 25 
several pair of breeches, the outer one of ample volume, 
decorated with rows of buttons down the sides, and 
bunches at the knees. He bore on his shoulder a stout 
keg, that seemed full of liquor, and made signs for Rip 
1 Jacket. 



270 The Sketch-Book 

to approach and assist him with the load. Though 
rather shy and distrustful of this new acquaintance, Rip 
complied with his usual alacrity ; and mutually relieving 
one another, they clambered up a narrow gully, appar- 
5 ently the dry bed of a mountain torrent. As they as- 
cended, Rip every now and then heard long, rolling peals, 
like distant thunder, that seemed to issue out of a deep 
ravine, or rather cleft, between lofty rocks, toward which 
their rugged path conducted. He paused for an instant, 

10 but supposing it to be the muttering of one of those tran- 
sient thunder showers which often take place in mountain 
heights, he proceeded. Passing through the ravine, they 
came to a hollow, like a small amphitheatre, surrounded 
by perpendicular precipices, over the brinks of which im- 

15 pending trees shot their branches, so that you only caught 
glimpses of the azure sky and the bright evening cloud. 
During the whole time Rip and his companion had la- 
boured on in silence ; for though the former marvelled 
greatly what could be the object of carrying a keg of 

20 liquor up this wild mountain, yet there was something 
strange and incomprehensible about the unknown, that 
inspired awe and checked familiarity. 

On entering the amphitheatre, new objects of wonder 
presented themselves. On a level spot in the centre was 

25 a company of odd-looking personages playing at nine- 
pins. They were dressed in a quaint, outlandish fashion ; 
some wore short doublets, others jerkins, with long 
knives in their belts, and most of them had enormous 
breeches of similar style with that of the guide's. Their 

30 visages, too, were peculiar : one had a large beard, broad 



Rip Van Winkle 271 

face, and small piggish eyes ; the face of another seemed 
to consist entirely of nose, and was surmounted by a 
white sugar-loaf hat, set off with a little red cock's tail. 
They all had beards, of various shapes and colours. There 
was one who seemed to be the commander. He was a stout 5 
old gentleman, with a weather-beaten countenance ; he 
wore a laced doublet, broad belt and hanger, 1 high 
crowned hat and feather, red stockings, and high-heeled 
shoes, with roses 2 in them. The whole group reminded 
Rip of the figures in an old Flemish painting, in the 10 
parlour of Dominie 3 Van Shaick, the village parson, and 
which had been brought over from Holland at the time 
of the settlement. 

What seemed particularly odd to Rip was, that, though 
these folks were evidently amusing themselves, yet they 15 
maintained the gravest faces, the most mysterious silence, 
and were, withal, the most melancholy party of pleasure 
he had ever witnessed. Nothing interrupted the stillness 
of the scene but the noise of the balls, which, whenever 
they were rolled, echoed along the mountains like rum- 20 
bling peals of thunder. 

As Rip and his companion approached them, they 
suddenly desisted from their play, and stared at him 
with such fixed, statue-like gaze, and such strange, un- 
couth, lack-lustre countenances, that his heart turned 25 
within him, and his knees smote together. His com- 
panion now emptied the contents of the keg into large 
flagons, and made signs to him to wait upon the com- 
pany. He obeyed with fear and trembling ; they quaffed 
1 Sword. 2 Rosettes. 3 Master. 



272 The Sketch-Book 

the liquor in profound silence, and then returned to their 
game. 

By degrees Rip's awe and apprehension subsided. He 
even ventured, when no eye was fixed upon him, to taste 
5 the beverage, which he found had much of the flavour of 
excellent Hollands. 1 He was naturally a thirsty soul, 
and was soon tempted to repeat the draught. One taste 
provoked another; and he reiterated his visits to the 
flagon so often that at length his senses were overpow- 

10 ered, his eyes swam in his head, his head gradually de- 
clined, and he fell into a deep sleep. 

On waking, he found himself on the green knoll whence 
he had first seen the old man of the glen. He rubbed 
his eyes — it was a bright sunny morning. The birds were 

15 hopping and twittering among the bushes, and the eagle 
was wheeling aloft, and breasting the pure mountain 
breeze. " Surely," thought Rip, " I have not slept here 
all night." He recalled the occurrences before he fell 
asleep. The strange man with a keg of liquor — the 

20 mountain ravine — the wild retreat among the rocks — 
the woe-begone party at ninepins — the flagon — "Oh! 
that flagon ! that wicked flagon ! " thought Rip, — " what 
excuse shall I make to Dame Van Winkle?" 

He looked round for his gun, but in place of the clean, 

25 well-oiled fowling-piece, he found an old firelock lying by 
him, the barrel incrusted with rust, the lock falling off, 
and the stock worm-eaten. He now suspected that the 
grave roisters 2 of the mountain had put a trick upon him, 
and, having dosed him with liquor, had robbed him of his 
1 Gin. 2 Gamesters. 



Rip Van Winkle 273 

gun. Wolf, too, had disappeared, but he might have 
strayed away after a squirrel or partridge. He whistled 
after him, and shouted his name, but all in vain; the 
echoes repeated his whistle and shout, but no dog was to 
be seen. 5 

He determined to revisit the scene of the last evening's 
gambol, and if he met with any of the party, to demand 
his dog and gun. As he rose to walk, he found himself stiff 
in the joints, and wanting in his usual activity. "These 
mountain beds do not agree with me," thought Rip, " and 10 
if this frolic should lay me up with a fit of the rheumatism, 
I shall have a blessed time with Dame Van Winkle." 
With some difficulty he got down into the glen : he found 
the gully up which he and his companion had ascended 
the preceding evening ; but to his astonishment a moun- 15 
tain stream was now foaming down it, leaping from rock 
to rock, and filling the glen with babbling murmurs. He, 
however, made shift to scramble up its sides, working his 
toilsome way through thickets of birch, sassafras, and 
witch-hazel, and sometimes tripped up or entangled by 20 
the wild grape-vines that twisted their coils or tendrils 
from tree to tree, and spread a kind of network in his 
path. 

At length he reached to where the ravine had opened 
through the cliffs to the amphitheatre; but no traces of 25 
such opening remained. The rocks presented a high, 
impenetrable wall, over which the torrent came tumbling 
in a sheet of feathery foam, and fell into a broad deep 
basin, black from the shadows of the surrounding forest. 
Here, then, poor Rip was brought to a stand. He again 30 

THE SKETCH-BOOK 1 8 



274 The Sketch-Book 

called and whistled after his dog ; he was only answered 
by the cawing of a flock of idle crows, sporting high in air 
about a dry tree that overhung a sunny precipice ; and 
who, secure in their elevation, seemed to look down and 

5 scoff at the poor man's perplexities. What was to be 
done? the morning was passing away, and Rip felt famished 
for want of his breakfast. He grieved to give up his dog 
and gun ; he dreaded to meet his wife ; but it would not 
do to starve among the mountains. He shook his head, 

10 shouldered the rusty firelock, and, with a heart full of 
trouble and anxiety, turned his steps homeward. 

As he approached the village he met a number of 
people, but none whom he knew, which somewhat sur- 
prised him, for he had thought himself acquainted with 

15 every one in the country round. Their dress, too, was of 
a different fashion from that to which he was accustomed. 
They all stared at him with equal marks of surprise, and 
whenever they cast their eyes upon him, invariably stroked 
their chins. The constant recurrence of this gesture 

20 induced Rip, involuntarily, to do the same, when, to his 
astonishment, he found his beard had. grown a foot 
long ! 

He had now entered the skirts of the village. A troop 
of strange children ran at his heels, hooting after him, and 

25 pointing at his grey beard. The dogs, too, not one of 
which he recognized for an old acquaintance, barked at 
him as he passed. The very village was altered ; it was 
larger and more populous. There were rows of houses 
which he had never seen before, and those which had 

30 been his familiar haunts had disappeared. Strange names 



Rip Van Winkle 275 

were over the doors — strange faces at the windows — 
everything was strange. His mind now misgave him ; he 
began to doubt whether both he and the world around 
him were not bewitched. Surely this was his native 
village, which he had left but the day before. There 5 
stood the Kaatskill Mountains — there ran the silver 
Hudson at a distance — there was every hill and dale 
precisely as it had always been. Rip was sorely perplexed. 
"That flagon last night, " thought he, "has addled my 
poor head sadly ! " 10 

It was with some difficulty that he found the way to 
his own house, which he approached with silent awe, ex- 
pecting every moment to hear the shrill voice of Dame 
Van Winkle. He found the house gone to decay — the 
roof fallen in, the windows shattered, and the doors off 15 
the hinges. A half-starved dog that looked like Wolf was 
skulking about it. Rip called him by name, but the cur 
snarled, showed his teeth, and passed on. This was an un- 
kind cut indeed. " My very dog," sighed poor Rip, " has 
forgotten me ! " 20 

He entered the house, which, to tell the truth, Dame 
Van Winkle had always kept in neat order. It was empty, 
forlorn, and apparently abandoned. This desolateness 
overcame all his connubial fears — he called loudly for 
his wife and children — the lonely chambers rang for a 25 
moment with his voice, and then all again was silence. 

He now hurried forth, and hastened to his old resort, 
the village inn — but it too was gone. A large rickety 
wooden building stood in its place, with great gaping 
windows, some of them broken and mended with old hats 30 



276 The Sketch-Book 

and petticoats, and over the door was painted, " The Union 
Hotel, by Jonathan Doolittle." Instead of the great tree 
that used to shelter the quiet little Dutch inn of yore, there 
now was reared a tall naked pole, with something on the 
5 top that looked like a red nightcap, and from it was 
fluttering a flag, on which was a singular assemblage of 
stars and stripes ; — all this was strange and incom- 
prehensible. He recognized on the sign, however, the 
ruby face of King George, under which he had smoked 

10 so many a peaceful pipe ■ but even this was singularly 
metamorphosed. The red coat was changed for one of 
blue and buff, a sword was held in the hand instead of a 
sceptre, the head was decorated with a cocked hat, and 
underneath was painted in large characters, General 

15 Washington. 

There was, as usual, a crowd of folk about the door, 
but none that Rip recollected. The very character of 
the people seemed changed. There was a busy, bustling, 
disputatious tone about it, instead of the accustomed 

20 phlegm and drowsy tranquillity. He looked in vain for 
the sage Nicholas Vedder, with his broad face, double 
chin, and fair long pipe, uttering clouds of tobacco-smoke 
instead of idle speeches; or Van Bummel, the school- 
master, doling forth the contents of an ancient newspaper. 

25 In place of these, a lean, bilious-looking fellow, with his 
pockets full of hand-bills, was haranguing vehemently about 
rights of citizens — elections — members of congress — 
liberty — Bunker's Hill — heroes of seventy-six — and 
other words, which were a perfect Babylonish jargon to 

30 the bewildered Van Winkle. 



Rip Van Winkle 277 

The appearance of Rip, with his long, grizzled beard, his 
rusty fowling-piece, his uncouth dress, and an army of 
women and children at his heels, soon attracted the 
attention of the tavern politicians. They crowded round 
him, eyeing him from head to foot with great curiosity. 5 
The orator bustled up to him, and, drawing him partly 
aside, inquired " On which side he voted ? " Rip stared 
in vacant stupidity. Another short but busy little fellow 
pulled him by the arm, and, rising on tiptoe, inquired in 
his ear, " Whether he was Federal or Democrat? " Rip 10 
was equally at a loss to comprehend the question ; when a 
knowing, self-important old gentleman, in a sharp cocked 
hat, made his way through the crowd, putting them to the 
right and left with his elbows as he passed, and planting 
himself before Van Winkle, with one arm akimbo, the other 15 
resting on his cane, his keen eyes and sharp hat pene- 
trating, as it were, into his very soul, demanded in an 
austere tone, " What brought him to the election with a 
gun on his shoulder, and a mob at his heels ; and whether 
he meant to breed a riot in the village? " — " Alas 1 gen- 20 
tlemen," cried Rip, somewhat dismayed, " I am a poor 
quiet man, a native of the place, and a loyal subject of 
the King, God bless him ! " 

Here a general shout burst from the by-standers — " A 
tory ! a tory ! a spy ! a refugee ! hustle him ! away with 25 
him ! " It was with great difficulty that the self-important 
man in the cocked hat restored order; and, having assumed 
a tenfold austerity of brow, demanded again of the un- 
known culprit, what he came there for, and whom he was 
seeking? The poor man humbly assured him that he 30 



278 The Sketch-Book 

meant no harm, but merely came there in search of some 
of his neighbours, who used to keep about the tavern. 
"Well — who are they? — name them." 
Rip bethought himself a moment, and inquired, 
5 "Where's Nicholas Vedder?" 

There was a silence for a little while, when an old man 

replied, in a thin piping voice, " Nicholas Vedder ! why, 

he is dead and gone these eighteen years ! There was a 

wooden tombstone in the churchyard that used to tell all 

10 about him, but that's rotten and gone too." 

" Where's Brom Dutcher? " 

" Oh, he went off to the army in the beginning of the 

war ; some say he was killed at the storming of Stony Point 

— others say he was drowned in a squall at the foot of 

15 Antony's Nose. I don't know — he never came back 

again." 

"Where's Van Bummel, the schoolmaster?" 
" He went off to the wars too, was a great militia 
general, and is now in congress. " 
20 Rip's heart died away at hearing of these sad changes 
in his home and friends, and finding himself thus alone 
in the world. Every answer puzzled him too, by treating 
of such enormous lapses of time, and of matters which he 
could not understand : war — congress — Stony Point — 
25 he had no courage to ask after any more friends, but 
cried out in despair, " Does nobody here know Rip Van 
Winkle?" 

" Oh, Rip Van Winkle ! " exclaimed two or three, " oh, 
to be sure ! that's Rip Van Winkle yonder, leaning against 
30 the tree." 



Rip Van Winkle 279 

Rip looked, and beheld a precise counterpart of him- 
self, as he went up the mountain ; apparently as lazy, and 
certainly as ragged. The poor fellow was now completely 
confounded. He doubted his own identity, and whether 
he was himself or another man. In the midst of his 5 
bewilderment, the man in the cocked hat demanded 
who he was, and what was his name. 

"God knows," exclaimed he, at his wit's end; "I'm 
not myself — I'm somebody else — that's me yonder — no 
— that's somebody else got into my shoes — I was my- 10 
self last night, but I fell asleep on the mountain, and 
they've changed my gun, and everything's changed, 
and I'm changed, and I can't tell what's my name, or 
who I am ! " 

The by-standers began now to look at each other, nod, 15 
wink significantly, and tap their fingers against their 
foreheads. There was a whisper, also, about securing 
the gun, and keeping the old fellow from doing mischief, 
at the very suggestion of which the self-important man in 
the cocked hat retired with some precipitation. At this 20 
critical moment a fresh, comely woman pressed through 
the throng to get a peep at the grey-bearded man. She 
had a chubby child in her arms, which, frightened at 
his looks, began to cry. " Hush, Rip," cried she, "hush, 
you little fool; the old man won't hurt you." The name 25 
of the child, the air of the mother, the tone of her voice, 
all awakened a train of recollections in his mind. " What 
is your name, my good woman? " asked he. 

" Judith Gardenier." 

"And your father's name? " 30 



280 The Sketch-Book 

" Ah, poor man, Rip Van Winkle was his name, but it's 
twenty years since he went away from home with his gun, 
and never has been heard of since, — his dog came home 
without him ; but whether he shot himself, or was carried 
5 away by the Indians, nobody can tell. I was then but a 
little girl." 

Rip had but one question more to ask ; but he put it 
with a faltering voice : 

"Where's your mother?" 
10 " Oh, she too had died but a short time since ; she broke 
a blood-vessel in a fit of passion at a New- England pedlar." 

There was a drop of comfort, at least, in this intelligence. 
The honest man could contain himself no longer. He 
caught his daughter and her child in his arms. " I am 
15 your father ! " cried he — " Young Rip Van Winkle once 
— old Rip Van Winkle now ! — Does nobody know poor 
Rip Van Winkle?" 

All stood amazed, until an old woman, tottering out from 
among the crowd, put her hand to her brow, and peering 
20 under it in his face for a moment, exclaimed, " Sure 
enough ! it is Rip Van Winkle — it is himself! Welcome 
home again, old neighbour. Why, where have you been 
these twenty long years?" 

Rip's story was soon told, for the whole twenty years 
25 had been to him but as one night. The neighbours 
stared when they heard it; some were seen to wink at 
each other, and put their tongues in their cheeks : and 
the self-important man in the cocked hat, who, when the 
alarm was over, had returned to the field, screwed down 
30 the corners of his mouth, and shook his head — upon 



Rip Van Winkle 281 

which there was a general shaking of the head through- 
out the assemblage. 

It was determined, however, to take the opinion of old 
Peter Vanderdonk, who was seen slowly advancing up 
the road. He was a descendant of the historian of that 5 
name, who wrote one of the earliest accounts of the 
province. Peter was the most ancient inhabitant of the 
village, and well versed in all the wonderful events and 
traditions of the neighbourhood. He recollected Rip at 
once, and corroborated his story in the most satisfactory 10 
manner. He assured the company that it was a fact, 
handed down from his ancestor the historian, that the 
Kaatskill Mountains had always been haunted by strange 
beings. That it was affirmed that the great Hendrick 
Hudson, the first discoverer of the river and country, 15 
kept a kind of a vigil there every twenty years, with his 
crew of the Half-moon ; being permitted in this way 
to revisit the scenes of his enterprise, and keep a guar- 
dian eye upon the river and the great city called by his 
name. That his father had once seen them in their old 20 
Dutch dresses playing at ninepins in a hollow of the 
mountains ; and that he himself had heard, one summer 
afternoon, the sound of their balls, like distant peals of 
thunder. 

To make a long story short, the company broke up and 25 
returned to the more important concerns of the election. 
Rip's daughter took him home to live with her; she had 
a snug, well- furnished house, and a stout, cheery farmer 
for a husband, whom Rip recollected for one of the urchins 
that used to climb upon his back. As to Rip's spn and 30 



282 The Sketch-Book 

heir, who was the ditto of himself, seen leaning against 
the tree, he was employed to work on the farm; but 
evinced an hereditary disposition to attend to anything 
else but his business. 

5 Rip now resumed his old walks and habits; he soon 
found many of his former cronies, though all rather the 
worse for the wear and tear of time ; and preferred mak- 
ing friends among the rising generation, with whom he 
soon grew into great favour. 

IO Having nothing to do at home, and being arrived at 
that happy age when a man can be idle with impunity, he 
took his place once more on the bench at the inn door, 
and was reverenced as one of the patriarchs of the village, 
and a chronicle of the old times "before the war." It 

15 was some time before he could get into the regular track 
of gossip, or could be made to comprehend the strange 
events that had taken place during his torpor. How that 
there had been a revolutionary war, — that the country 
had thrown off the yoke of old England, — and that, in- 

20 stead of being a subject of his Majesty George the Third, 
he was now a free citizen of the United States. Rip, in 
fact, was no politician ; the changes of states and empires 
made but little impression on him ; but there was one species 
of despotism under which he had long groaned, and that 

25 was — petticoat government. Happily that was at an 
end ; he had got his neck out of the yoke of matrimony, 
and could go in and out whenever he pleased, without 
dreading the tyranny of Dame Van Winkle. Whenever 
her name was mentioned, however, he shook his head, 

30 shrugged his shoulders, and cast up his eyes ; which might 



Rip Van Winkle 283 

pass either for an expression of resignation to his fate, or 
joy at his deliverance. 

He used to tell his story to every stranger that arrived 
at Mr. Doolittle's hotel. He was observed, at first, to 
vary on some points every time he told it, which was, 5 
doubtless, owing to his having so recently awaked. It at 
last settled down precisely to the tale I have related, and 
not a man, woman, or child in the neighbourhood but 
knew it by heart. Some always pretended to doubt the 
reality of it, and insisted that Rip had been out of his head, 10 
and that this was one point on which he always remained 
flighty. The old Dutch inhabitants, however, almost 
universally gave it full credit. Even to this day they 
never hear a thunder-storm of a summer afternoon about 
the Kaatskill, but they say Hendrick Hudson and his 15 
crew are at their game of ninepins ; and it is a common 
wish of all hen-pecked husbands in the neighbourhood, 
when life hangs heavy on their hands, that they might 
have a quieting draught out of Rip Van Winkle's flagon. 



NOTE 

The foregoing Tale, one would suspect, had been suggested to 20 
Mr. Knickerbocker by a little German superstition about the Em- 
peror Frederick der Rothbart} and the Kypphauser Mountain : the 
subjoined note, however, which he had appended to the tale, shows 
that it is an absolute fact, narrated with his usual fidelity. 

" The story of Rip Van Winkle may seem incredible to many, 25 
but nevertheless I give it my full belief, for I know the vicinity of 



1 Barbarossa. 



284 The Sketch-Book 

our old Dutch settlements to have been very subject to marvellous 
events and appearances. Indeed, I have heard many stranger 
stories than this, in the villages along the Hudson; all of which 
were too well authenticated to admit of a doubt. I have even 
5 talked with Rip Van Winkle myself, who, when last I saw him, 
was a very venerable old man, and so perfectly rational and con- 
sistent on every other point, that I think no conscientious person 
could refuse to take this into the bargain; nay, I have seen a cer- 
tificate on the subject taken before a country justice and signed 
10 with a cross, in the justice's own handwriting. The story, there- 
fore, is beyond the possibility of doubt. 

"D. K." 



POSTSCRIPT 

The following are travelling notes from a memorandum-book 
of Mr. Knickerbocker. 

The Kaatsberg, or Catskill Mountains, have always been a region 

15 full of fable. The Indians considered them the abode of spirits, 
who influenced the weather, spreading sunshine or clouds over the 
landscape, and sending good or bad hunting seasons. They were 
ruled by an old squaw spirit, said to be their mother. She dwelt 
on the highest peak of the Catskills, and had charge of the doors 

20 of day and night to open and shut them at the proper hour. She 
hung up the new moons in the skies, and cut up the old ones into 
stars. In times of drought, if properly propitiated, she would spin 
light summer clouds out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send 
them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes 

25 of carded cotton, to float in the air; until, dissolved by the heat of 
the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to 
spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. 
If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, 
sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the 

3° midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, woe betide the 
valleys ! 



Rip Van Winkle 285 



In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of 
Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the . 
Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking 
all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he 
would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the 5 
bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and 
among ragged rocks ; and then spring off with a loud ho ! ho ! 
leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging 
torrent. 

The favourite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great 10 
rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the 
flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which 
abound in its neighbourhood, is known by the name of the Garden 
Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary 
bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the 15 
pond-lilies which lie on the surface. This place was held in great 
awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not 
pursue his game within its precincts. Once upon a time, however, 
a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the Garden Rock, 
where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of 20 
trees. One of these he seized and made off with it, but in the 
hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great 
stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him down 
precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its 
way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being 25 
the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill. 



NOTE ON IRVING'S PORTRAIT 

The portrait of Irving (frontispiece), which, so far as 
the editor knows, has never before been published, is re- 
produced, by permission, from the pencil drawing by 
Carl Vogel von Vogelstein in the Dresden Print Room. 
The artist made the sketch from life while Irving was in 
Dresden in 1823. The signature and date (1 Feb 7 1823) 
are presumably in Irving's own hand. 

The editor's thanks are due to his friend, Dr. Hans W. 
Singer, Assistant Director of the Print Room, for the 
finding of this portrait, as well as for many other kind- 
nesses in the preparation of this volume. 






286 



NOTES 

The heavy marginal figures stand for page, the lighter ones for line. 
THE VOYAGE 

The text is that of Irving's revised edition of 1848, as reprinted 
in 1864. Obvious misprints have been corrected silently. Irving 
makes many direct and indirect allusions, some of which the editor 
has not been able to trace. 

35 : 12. Long voyage. Contrary winds and storms might pro- 
long the voyage on a sailing vessel from weeks to months. 

36 : 2. Lengthening chain. Goldsmith's Traveller, 10. 

36 : 13. Case with myself. Irving's first voyage was made 
when the author was still a student of law. The tone of this essay 
indicates a man of more maturity. 

39 : 11. Banks of Newfoundland. The shallow parts of the 
Atlantic to the east and south of Newfoundland, usually cold 
and foggy. The shortest eastern course of vessels clearing from 
New York and bound for north European ports lies across the 
Banks. As perhaps the most important fishing ground in the 
world, it is, in season, filled with fishing smacks; and collisions 
with steamers in the fog seem at present unavoidable. 

40:15. Deep called. Psalms xlii. 9. 

43 : 20. A stranger. Irving published his Sketch-Book under 
the pen name of "Geoffrey Crayon," a simple device which en- 
abled him to narrate in the first person such fictitious events as he 
desired. But many of the events in these pages happened to him 
precisely as here told; and so far as traits of character are con- 
cerned, there is no difference between Irving and Geoffrey Crayon. 

287. 



288 Notes 



CHRISTMAS 



44 : 15. Rural games. Many of our games are very old, some 
of them going back to Greek and Roman times, others springing 
from mediaeval religious ceremonies. 

45 : 20. Advent. The period, beginning the Christian year, 
which celebrates the coming of Christ. It begins on the Sunday 
nearest St. Andrew's day (November 30), and includes the four 
Sundays prior to Christmas. 

46 : 23. Dreariness and desolation. But Irving appreciated 
the beauty of a winter landscape more than these words indicate. 
See the fourth paragraph of the Christmas Eve essay, p. 64. 

47 : 21. Rural habit. As distinguished from the Americans, 
the English have never lost their pride in living in the country. 
The tendency, so marked with us, to desert the country for the city, 
does not exist in the same measure in England, where country seats 
are retained as long as possible. But with us at present a reaction 
has begun. 

47 : 26. Rites of Christmas. Some of the merry-makings of 
the Christmas season have been preserved for us in a semi-literary 
form, in the St. George plays of the English yeomanry. These may 
be found in Manly's Specimens of Pre-Shaksperean Dra??ia, vol. ii. 
A vivid account of the presentation of a St. George's play is in 
Hardy's novel, The Return of the Native, Book ii, chapters 4 and 5. 

48 : 21. Sherris sack. Falstaff's praise of sherds sack is in 
2 Henry IV., iv. 3. The word " sack " is the French sec, meaning 
" dry." 

48 : 23. Times full of spirit. The days of Queen Elizabeth's 
reign were full of the spirit of discovery, of national independence, 
and of literary striving. The English drama of this period is the 
greatest contribution ever made by one time and country to the 
literature of the world. 

48 : 28. More worldly. Doubtless every age has thought pre- 
ceding ages more romantic than its own. It may not be unin- 
teresting for the student to send his mind a century ahead and try 



Notes 289 

to imagine what features of our own day a succeeding age will call 
romantic, while it continues to deplore (unless the future be wiser 
than we have any certainty that it will be) the absence of romance 
in its own time. 

49 : 4. Society . . . has lost. There are always those who 
extol the virtues of past days, and usually at the expense of our 
own. A name for such a praiser of past time is the Latin laudator 
temporis acti, a term you will not infrequently meet with. Irving 
has a touch of this feeling, but his expression of it is temperate; 
he does not find it necessary to say that the past was all good and 
that the present is all bad. 

50 : 1. Deep sleep. Job iv. 13. . 
50 : 4. Celestial choir. Luke ii, 13. 

50 : 9. Telling the night-watches. Inexactly quoted from 
Milton's Com us, 347 : — 

" Count the night-watches to his feathery dames." 
Irving is undeniably careless in his quotations. In our respect for 
accuracy, at least, we have improved upon Irving's time. It was 
the fashion then to make allusions rather than citations. 

50 : 13. Some say. In this quotation from Hamlet, i..i, Irving 
makes two slips: "This bird," for "The bird," and "dares stir" 
for " can walk." 

THE STAGE-COACH 

De Quincey's essay, The English Mail- Coach, is an admirable 
description that covers some of the points that Irving touches upon. 

52 : 1. Omne bene. "All is well, safe from punishment, (this) 
is the time for play ; the hour has come, without delay, of laying 
books aside." The student will remember that in the English 
schools of two centuries and more ago, Latin was the language 
employed for all commands and the like, as well as songs, exer- 
cises, and so on; the pupils spoke Latin. 

54 : 10. He has commonly. Those who have read Pickwick 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 1 9 



290 Notes 

Papers will see from this description that Dickens's portrayal of 
Tony Weller is based upon actual observation. Tony appears for 
the first time in chapter xx of Book I. 

54 : 29. Propriety of person. No people in the world are 
physically so clean as the English. The belief in the daily bath is 
the basis of England's general health and athletic superiority. (By 
this latter term, — it may be added for boys who are acquainted 
with athletic records, — one does not mean the question whether 
England's picked university athletes may win or lose from similar 
American representatives in any given year : one means the fact 
that the mass of Englishmen are athletically superior to the men of 
other nations.) 

57 : 13. Twelve days. Christmas celebrations lasted until the 
6th of January, the Feast of the Epiphany, or Manifestation of 
Christ to the Gentiles {Matthew ii.). The eve of this day was 
called Twelfth Night, at which time the festivities ended with espe- 
cial gaiety. Shakespeare's play receives its name from this holiday. 

57 : 20. Holly and ivy. There is an old song about holly and 
ivy having a dispute as to " which shall have the mastery in lands 
where we go." 

57 : 22. Benefit the butler. Dice and cards would presum- 
ably keep the gamesters thirsty, and the butler would be busy, but 
would have increased opportunities of helping himself. 

57 : 23. Lick his fingers. If the cook has his eyes open, he 
will be able to filch a few sweet things for himself. Perhaps, how- 
ever, this sentence may mean only that an intelligent cook will pre- 
pare sweetmeats proper to the occasion. " Lick his fingers " means 
to cheat, and also means to anticipate the taste of something. 

59 : 4. Shut it from my sight. It is an artistic touch, as well 
as more natural, not to describe the meeting. We can easily im- 
agine it from what Irving has told us of the things we could not so 
readily imagine ; and this is a neat and unexpected ending. 

59 : 21. Inferior order. Such travellers would eat in the kitchen 
instead of having their supper in a private room. 

60 : 1. Poor Robin's. Poor Robin's Almanac, published 1683, 



Notes 291 



by the Stationers' Company of London, and continued down to 
1828. It contained verses and jokes as well as information relating 
to the calendar. 

60:14. Bracebridge. In 1822 Irving published a volume 
called Bracebridge Hall. 

■ 

CHRISTMAS EVE 

62 : 9. Cartwright. William Cartwright (i6n-l643),an Eng- 
lish poet and dramatist. The stanza is quoted from The Ordinary, 
iii. 1. 

62 : 24. Ancient rural life. Here we have a different point 
of view from that indicated in the preceding essay. There, to 
Irving, the stranger, the English seemed to be unusually fond of 
the country ; here, to the speaker, an Englishman, that fondness 
is much less than it used to be. The different views, however, are 
not contradictory ; they are only different ways of looking at the 
same fact. 

63 : 1. Honest Peacham. Books like Peacham' s Complete 
Gentleman were great favourites in the seventeenth century, and 
as they were written for practical purposes — namely, to teach en- 
quiring people how to bear themselves appropriately, — they give 
us of to-day many interesting glimpses of the manners and customs 
of a former time. How to ride, to fence, to carve, to play games, 
to care for falcons, dogs, horses, cattle, — these are a few of the 
many lessons they proffered to their willing readers. Henry 
Peacham (? 15 76-? 1643) published his book in 1622, and on the 
title page, as was common in that day, the object of the book was 
stated. The writer purposed to describe a gentleman, " fashioning 
him absolute in the most necessary and commendable qualities con- 
cerning mind or bodie that may be required in a noble gentleman." 

63 : 2. Chesterfield (1694-17 73). Lord Chesterfield's book, 
Letters to his Son, published more than a century and a half (1774) 
after Peacham's book, as contrasted with the earlier volume which 
dealt with homely and material things, concerns itself with advis- 



292 Notes 



ing a young man of birth and fortune how to be successful in the 
higher walks of diplomacy and fashionable society. Its spirit is in- 
dicated by the fact that even nowadays to speak of a man as a 
Chesterfield is synonymous with saying that he is a model of 
courtly politeness. The old Squire, certainly a model of hearty 
politeness, may have felt more at home with " honest Peacham " 
than with keen-minded Chesterfield. 

64 : 5. Family crest. Above the coat-of-arms of a family there 
was a token called the crest, often a helmet, or coronet (varying with 
rank), which crowned, as it were, the insignia of the family. In 
houses not of titular rank, the crest was frequently a heraldic animal. 

64 : 23. The hall. The mansion of a district was usually 
called the Hall, by derivation from the use of the word as the main 
apartment of a castle. See the passage in this essay on pages 68-9. 

65 : 16. Merrie disport. See the footnote on page 109. 

65 : 17. Pedantry so delightful. Compare the undelightful 
pedantry of the young duke in Browning's Flight of the Duchess. 

65 : 23. Mongrel, puppy. See Goldsmith's Elegy on the Death 
of a Mad Dog. 

65 : 27. The little dogs. Lear, iii. 6. 

66 : 6. Different periods. Much of older English domestic 
architecture is rambling, because as new parts of a building were 
needed they were erected in the fashionable style of the time, 
without much regard to harmony with the previously erected por- 
tions. Such results, though of course architecturally hybrid, often 
show a picturesque beauty and that unexpected unity of purpose 
which springs from building for service. 

66 : 11. French taste. Charles had spent the exiled part of his 
life under French influences, and on his accession gave a vogue 
to French ideas. Since then French taste has meant to England, 
as it has to the rest of the world, the perfection of taste. 

66 : 13. Returned. Many adherents of the monarch had shared 
Charles's exile. 

66 : 16. Clipped shrubberies. A fashion of clipping thickly 
foliaged shrubs and trees, such as yews, into regular or even fan- 



Notes 293 



tastic shapes. A tree might be pruned into the shape of a cube, 
a ball, an hour-glass, an animal. The results seem sometimes 
absurd, but sometimes charming. It may seem inartistic to trim 
trees out of their natural shape, but it is hard to say where to draw 
the line, for garden trees are rarely left to grow unpruned. 

67:14. Old games. Hoodman blind is blindman's buff . In hot 
cockles, the blindfold person must guess who has struck him. 
Shoe the wild mare is the name given to an old harvest game. 
Riding the wild mare was applied to the game of see-saw. No 
distinctly indoor Christmas game by this name is known to the 
editor. Steal the white loaf: it was customary, as part of the 
Christmas Eve ceremony, to place a loaf upon the table. The mem- 
bers of the household appeared in disguise. One, elected for the 
purpose, laid his hand upon the loaf, and guessed the names of 
those present. For each name correctly guessed a forfeit was due. 
Bob apple is catching with the teeth an apple floating in a tub 
of water. Snap dragon is plucking out with the fingers raisins 
from a shallow dish of burning spirits in a darkened room. 

70 : 19. Herrick. Robert Herrick, a writer of charming lyrics 
( 1 591-1674). The quoted stanza is from his Ceremonies for 
Christmas, one of the many poems which he published under 
the general title of the Hesperides. 

71 : 15. Master Simon. Not unlike Will Wimble in the Roger 
de Coverley papers. See Spectator, 108. 

72 : 5. Punch and Judy. An Italian actor of the seventeenth 
century seems to have given his name, Pulcinello, to the main figure 
of this perennially amusing little puppet play, still to be seen in 
London streets. 

75 : 2. Of late years. The allied efforts to subdue Napoleon 
brought English armies to the continent, and in the intervals of 
conflict the young officers acquired, as Irving notes, some peaceful 
accomplishments. 

75 : 12. Little French air. Possibly "O Richard, O mon roi," 
by Gretry. 

76: 27. Dares stir. "No spirit can walk abroad. ,? — Hamlet,i. 1. 



294 Notes 



CHRISTMAS DAY 

78 : 1. Dark and dull night. From Herrick's Christmas Carol, 
sung to the King in the Presence at Whitehall. 

80 : 10. Acted as clerk. The clerk, in the English services, led 
the congregational part of the responses. 

80 : 15. Constructed from a poem. Herrick's A Thanksgiving 
to God for his House, lines 25-37. 

81 : 6. Saints day. The days of the Christian year are well 
apportioned out among the saints of Christendom. The calendar 
of the Roman Catholic church indicates many more days of such 
observance than does that of the Anglican Catholic church. 

81 : 10. Falling into neglect. The custom of daily morning 
household prayers is observed more in England than Irving's words 
would lead one to suppose. 

81 : 18. Tea and toast. Tea is the general English breakfast 
beverage, as contrasted with the continental and American use of 
coffee; but the present-day English breakfast usually reinforces 
the tea and toast with bacon and eggs, sufficient to have satisfied 
the Squire. 

82 : 23. Sir Anthony Fitzherbert (1470-1538). His Book of 
Husbandry (1523) was the first English book on agriculture. 

83 : 16. Animal spirits. This is a curious instance of the 
change of meaning in an expression. The term means spirits of 
the soul {animd), but nowadays we give to it a bodily, rather than 
a spiritual, meaning. 

83 : 22. Old authors. The books referred to are all of the 
general type of " honest Peacham," as noted on page 63. The 
Book of Husbandry, by Fitzherbert, just spoken of, appeared in 
1523; Countrey Contentments, by Gervais (or Jervaise, as Irving 
calls it) Markham (?I568-i637) in 1615, an especially interesting 
and useful book to the student of the early seventeenth century; 
the Tretyse of Hunting, " compyled for the Delight of Noblemen 
and Gentlemen," by Sir Thomas Cockayne (? 1519-1592), a great 
authority on hunting, in 1590; and the Co??ip teat Angler (see the 



Notes 295 

essay on the Angler in this present volume), by Izaak Walton 
(1593-1683) in 1653. 

84:14. Tusser. Thomas Tusser (?I524-I58o), an English poet 
of themes of husbandry. His Hundred Points of Good Husbandry 
was much read in its day. 

86:6. Caxton. William Caxton (? 1422-1492) was the first 
English printer. He set up his press in 147 1. Wynkyn de Worde 
(died 1534) was a protege and follower of Caxton. 

87 : 3. Fathers of the Church. The name given to the writers 
of books on subjects pertaining to the Christian church: the 
Protestant acceptation of the word referring to early writers end- 
ing with the sixth century; the Catholic usage extending the time 
to a modern period. 

88 : 12. Cremona fiddles. For nearly two centuries, and espe- 
cially in the seventeenth, Cremona in Italy was celebrated for its 
violins. To this day they have never been equalled for beauty of 
tone, and many of them are still in use among famous violinists. 
The principal makers of these wonderful instruments were Stradi- 
varius, Amati, Guarneri, and Guadagnini. 

89 : 13. Saints and fathers. The fathers of the church, re- 
ferred to above. Theophilus, a bishop of Antioch in the second 
century; St. Cyprian, a Latin writer (? 200-258); St. Chrysostom, 
a Greek (347-407) ; St. Augustine, the African bishop (345-430) ; 
St. Augustine, the English missionary (died 607). 

89 : 21. Revolution. The civil revolution in England, which, 
beginning with years of discontent, broke into open war, and culmi- 
nated in the beheading of Charles I. in 1649. The Long Parlia- 
ment assembled in 1640 and was the chief source of authority on 
the Puritan side until Cromwell was made Lord Protector in 1653. 
The celebration of Christmas had long been regarded by the Puri- 
tans as being in some way related to the observances of the Roman 
Catholic church. The Puritans who came to New England brought 
no merry Christmas with them. 

90 : 12. Restoration. The restoration of the Stuart line, in the 
person of Charles II., to the throne of England, took place in 1660. 



296 



Notes 



90 : 15. Prynne. A violent Puritan pamphleteer (1 600-1 669), 
whose ears were cut off as a punishment for his expression of 
opinions unpleasant to those in authority. 

93 : 29. Round about our Sea-Coal Fire. An anonymous 
pamphlet published late in the seventeenth century. (Drake.) 

94 : 3. Reform. The second quarter of the nineteenth century 
in England was a period in which constant agitation on the part 
of the people brought about reforms in- the franchise and taxa- 
tion. 

95 : 11. Sword-dance. The dialogue of a sword dance may be 
found in the second volume of Manly's Specimens of Pre-Shak- 
sperean Drama. 

96 : 12. Oil and wine. Psalm civ. 15. 



THE CHRISTMAS DINNER 

97 : 6. Christmas blocks. Logs. 

97 : 12. Wither. George Wither (1 588-1 667), an English poet 
of some real gifts, unfairly made fun of in the Dunciad. The 
name is sometimes spelled Withers. 

97 : 24. Train band. Militia. 

97 : 26. Sir John Suckling (1609- 1642). A cavalier poet who 
wrote some memorable lines. This quotation is from his Ballad 
upon a Wedding. 

98 : 23. Belshazzar's parade. Daniel v. 1-3. 

98 : 23. Flagons, . . . ewers. This has the cadence of Daniel 
iii. 5, 7, 10,15. 

99 : 10. Holbein (1497-1543). Hans Holbein the Younger, 
a great Suabian painter, who did much of his best work in Eng- 
land. 

99 : 10. Diirer (1471-1528). Albrecht Durer, one of the great- 
est of German painters and etchers. Nuremberg was his home. 

100 : 7. Lemon. An apple seems to be the more authentic 
decoration. 



Notes 297 

100 : 12. Old carol. An Oxford manuscript of about 1540 
preserves a version of this song composed before 1500. The Latin 
words mean : " The head of the boar I bring in, Giving praise to 
the Lord . . . Those who are at this feast." The version above 
referred to and here given (see An English Garner: Pollard's 
edition of Fifteenth Century Prose and Verse) varies from that 
offered by the parson to the fat-headed old gentleman (page 101) : 

" Caput apri defero 
Resonens laudes domino. 
The boar's head in hands I bring, 
With garlands gay and birds singing ! 
I pray you all help me to sing, 
Qui estis in convivio ! " 

101 : 5. Black gowns. The students at Oxford and Cambridge 
wear gowns. 

103 : 22. Justice Shallow. A character in 2 Henry IV. and 

in Merry Wives. 

103 : 22. Cock and pie. Irving's derivation is erroneous. To 
use the expression was to swear by God and the Service Book. 

103 : 24. Massinger. Philip Massinger (1583- 1640) was a 
celebrated dramatist of the famous period of English drama. 
The passage given is carelessly quoted from the play : " and court 
gluttony " should be added after " Christ masses," and the last long 
line split up into its proper verses, since it is a blank verse passage. 
See City Madam, ii. 1. 

107 : 3. Had retired. It is still the custom in England for the 
ladies to withdraw to the parlour or (with) drawing-room, after 
dinner, leaving the men for a while to their wine and smoking. 

108 : 3. Alphabet of faces. A series of grimaces. The ex- 
pression was a proverbial one in the sixteenth and seventeenth 
centuries. 

109 : 19. Mock fairies. Little children, dressed as fairies, 
who pinched and teased Falstaff in the park at Windsor — Merry 
Wives, v. 5. 



298 Notes 

109: 28. Stowe. John Stowe (1525-1605) wrote a description 
of the London of his day, A Survey of London (1598), which is 
one of the most valuable of books to those who wish to form a 
conception of the metropolis at the time of Shakespeare. See 
Henry Stephenson's Shakespeare's London, 

in : 20. His picture. The servants did not know that the 
eyes of any face painted as looking directly forward will " follow 
you " wherever you stand in the room. 

113 : 8. Antique mask. Irving seems to be referring to what 
is properly called an anti-mask, which was a frequent, although 
not invariable, part of the mask itself. The mask was an elaborate 
and beautiful entertainment, consisting of a somewhat slight dra- 
matic action, fancy dress, singing, and much dancing. 

113 : 15. Covenanters. Scotch Presbyterians who adhered to 
the terms of the Scottish National Covenant of 1638. 

113 : 21. Kendal green. Flemish weavers living in the six- 
teenth century in Kendal, Westmoreland, produced the colour. It 
is an immortal colour, for it is the one that was worn, Falstaff de- 
clared, by " three misbegotten knaves," who attacked him when it 
was so dark that a man could not see his own hand. — (/ Henry 
IV., ii. 4.) 

113 : 28. Ben Jonson (? 15 73-1 637). One of the greatest of 
the Elizabethan dramatists. Christmas : his Masque was written 
for 1 616. To justify Mr. Geoffrey Crayon's "strong suspicion" of 
the source of Master Simon's costume, Ben Jonson's stage direction 
may be quoted : — " Enter Christmas . . . attired in round hose, 
long stockings, a close doublet, a high-crowned hat, with a brooch, 
a long thin beard, a truncheon, little ruffs, white shoes, his scarf and 
garters tiedcross, and his drum beaten before him." " Minced-Pie, 
like a fine cook's wife, drest neat," is another direction. 

114 : 4. Maid Marian. The beautiful consort of Robin Hood. 

115 : 23. Sir John Hawkins (171 9-1 789) published his His- 
tory of Music in 1776. 

116 : 14. Days of evil. One wonders if there ever was an age 
which did not thus refer to itself. 



Notes 299 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 

117 : 4. Cowper. William Cowper (1 731-1800), author of 
The Task, a long blank-verse poem. 

117:23. Carnival. The days of gaiety preceding Lent. Note 
that the popular etymology of this word, carni-vale, farewell to 
flesh, is wrong. The derivation is carnem levare, to abstain from 
flesh. 

118 : 30. Huge metropolis. London in 1820 had over a mill- 
ion and a quarter of inhabitants, approximately as many as the 
state of New York at the same time. The vast city has now nearly 
seven millions in the limits of the metropolitan police districts. 

123 : 23. The Flower and the Leaf. Not now attributed to 
Chaucer. 

124 : 4. Crimson tints. Irving is referring to the English daisy. 

126 : 4. Remarkable felicity. Irving is too charitable to this 
forgotten author of a forgotten poem. Princess Charlotte was the 
daughter of George IV, and her untimely death, in 181 7, was a 
grief to the nation. 

THE COUNTRY CHURCH 

127 : 5. Beggar's Bush. A broadsheet ballad (see note on 
212 : 22). 

131 : 14. Lord Mayor's day. The installation festivities of the 
Lord Mayor of London include a gorgeous procession and a 
banquet. 

133 : 22. Turtle-fed. Turtle soup is the proverbial delicacy 
of the London civic banquets. 

WESTMINSTER ABBEY 

141 : 24. Roubillac. Louis Francois Roubillac (1 690-1762), 
a French sculptor who lived in London. 

143 : 11. Knights of the Bath. An English order of knight- 
hood. 



300 Notes 

144 : 24. Elizabeth. Queen Elizabeth (1533-1603). 

144 : 26. Mary. Mary Queen of Scots (1542-beheaded 1587). 

146 : 24. Edward the Confessor. See Irving's Notes on 
Westminster Abbey below. 

149 : 7. Sir Thomas Browne (1605- 1682). Author of Urn- 
Burial, an eloquent piece of English prose. 

149 : 20. Cures wounds. Mummy flesh (and imitations of it) 
was used as a drug in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. 

Irving's Notes on Westminster Abbey 

Toward the end of the sixth century, when Britain, under the 
dominion of the Saxons, was in a state of barbarism and idolatry, 
Pope Gregory the Great, struck with the beauty of some Anglo-Saxon 
youths exposed for sale in the market-place at Rome, conceived 
a fancy for the race, and determined to send missionaries to preach 
the gospel among these comely but benighted islanders. He was 
encouraged to this by learning that Ethelbert, king of Kent, and 
the most potent of the Anglo-Saxon princes, had married Bertha, 
a Christian princess, only daughter of the king of Paris, and that 
she was allowed by stipulation the full exercise of her religion. 

The shrewd Pontiff knew the influence of the sex in matters of 
religious faith. He forthwith despatched Augustine, a Roman 
monk, with forty associates, to the court of Ethelbert at Canterbury, 
to effect the conversion of the king and to obtain through him 
a foothold in the island. 

Ethelbert received them warily, and held a conference in the 
open air; being distrustful of foreign priestcraft, and fearful of 
spells and magic. They ultimately succeeded in making him as 
good a Christian as his wife; the conversion of the king of course 
produced the conversion of his loyal subjects. The zeal and suc- 
cess of Augustine were rewarded by his being made archbishop 
of Canterbury, and being endowed with authority over all the 
British churches. 

One of the most prominent converts was Segebert or Sebert, 



Notes 301 

king of the East Saxons, a nephew of Ethelbert. He reigned at 
London, of which Mellitus, one of the Roman monks who had 
come over with Augustine, was made bishop. 

Sebert, in 605, in his religious zeal, founded a monastery by the 
river-side to the west of the city, on the ruins of a temple of Apollo, 
being, in fact, the origin of the present pile of Westminster Abbey. 
Great preparations were made for the consecration of the church, 
which was to be dedicated to St. Peter. On the morning of the 
appointed day, Mellitus, the bishop, proceeded with great pomp 
and solemnity to perform the ceremony. On approaching the edi- 
fice he was met by a fisherman, who informed him that it was 
needless to proceed, as the ceremony was over. The bishop stared 
with surprise, when the fisherman went on to relate, that the night 
before, as he was in his boat on the Thames, St. Peter appeared 
to him, and told him that he intended to consecrate the church 
himself, that very night. The apostle accordingly went into the 
church, which suddenly became illuminated. The ceremony was 
performed in sumptuous style, accompanied by strains of heavenly 
music and clouds of fragrant incense. After this, the apostle came 
into the boat and ordered the fisherman to cast his net. He did so, 
and had a miraculous draught of fishes; one of which he was com- 
manded to present to the bishop, and to signify to him that the 
apostle had relieved him from the necessity of consecrating the 
church. 

Mellitus was a wary man, slow of belief, and required confirma- 
tion of the fisherman's tale. He opened the church doors, and 
beheld wax candles, crosses, holy water; oil sprinkled in various 
places, and various other traces of a grand ceremonial. If he had 
still any lingering doubts, they were completely removed on the 
fisherman's producing the identical fish which he had been ordered 
by the apostle to present to him. To resist this would have been 
to resist ocular demonstration. The good bishop accordingly was 
convinced that the church had actually been consecrated by 
St. Peter in person; so he reverently abstained from proceeding 
further in the business. 



302 Notes 

The foregoing tradition is said to be the reason why King Edward 
the Confessor chose this place as the site of a religious house which 
he meant to endow. He pulled down the old church and built 
another in its place in 1045. In this his remains were deposited 
in a magnificent shrine. 

The sacred edifice again underwent modifications, if not a recon- 
struction, by Henry III., in 1220, and began to assume its present 
appearance. 

Under Henry VIII. it lost its conventual character, that monarch 
turning the monks away and seizing upon the revenues. 

Relics of Edward the Confessor 

A curious narrative was printed in 1688, by one of the choristers 
of the cathedral, who appears to have been the Paul Pry of the 
sacred edifice, giving an account of his rummaging among the bones 
of Edward the Confessor, after they had quietly reposed in their 
sepulchre upwards of six hundred years, and of his drawing forth 
the crucifix and golden chain of the deceased monarch. During 
eighteen years that he had officiated in the choir, it had been a 
common tradition, he says, among his brother choristers and the 
gray-headed servants of the abbey, that the body of King Edward 
was deposited in a kind of chest or coffin, which was indistinctly 
seen in the upper part of the shrine erected to his memory. None 
of the abbey gossips, however, had ventured upon a nearer inspec- 
tion, until the worthy narrator, to gratify his curiosity, mounted 
to the coffin by the aid of a ladder, and found it to be made of 
wood, apparently very strong and firm, being secured by bands of 
iron. 

Subsequently, in 1685, on taking down the scaffolding used in 
the coronation of James II., the coffin was found to be broken, 
a hole appearing in the lid, probably made, through accident, by 
the workmen. No one ventured, however, to meddle with the 
sacred depository of royal dust, until, several weeks afterwards, 
the circumstance came to the knowledge of the aforesaid chorister. 



Notes 303 

He forthwith repaired to the abbey in company with two friends, 
of congenial tastes, who were desirous of inspecting the tombs. 
Procuring a ladder, he again mounted to the coffin, and found, 
as had been represented, a hole in the lid about six inches long and 
four inches broad, just in front of the left breast. Thrusting in his 
hand and groping among the bones, he drew from underneath the 
shoulder a crucifix, richly adorned and enamelled, affixed to a gold 
chain twenty-four inches long. These he showed to his inquisitive 
friends, who were equally surprised with himself. 

" At the time," says he, " when I took the cross and chain out of 
the coffin, / drew the head to the hole and viewed it, being very 
sound and firm, with the upper and nether jaws whole and full of 
teeth, and a list of gold above an inch broad, in the nature of a cor- 
onet, surrounding the temples. There was also in the coffin white 
linen and gold-colored flowered silk, that looked indifferent fresh; 
but the least stress put thereto showed it was wellnigh perished. 
There were all his bones, and much dust likewise, which I left 
as I found." 

It is difficult to conceive a more grotesque lesson to human pride 
than the skull of Edward the Confessor thus irreverently pulled 
about in its coffin by a prying chorister, and brought to grin face 
to face with him through a hole in the lid ! 

Having satisfied his curiosity, the chorister put the crucifix and 
chain back again into the coffin, and sought the dean, to apprise him 
of his discovery. The dean not being accessible at the time, and 
fearing that the "holy treasure" might be taken away by other 
hands, he got a brother chorister to accompany him to the shrine 
about two or three hours afterwards, and in his presence again 
drew forth the relics. These he afterwards delivered on his knees 
to King James. The king subsequently had the old coffin enclosed 
in a new one of great strength : " each plank being two inches 
thick and cramped together with large iron wedges, where it now 
remains (1688) as a testimony of his pious care, that no abuse 
might be offered to the sacred ashes therein deposited." 

As the history of this shrine is full of moral, I subjoin a descrip- 



304 Notes 

tion of it in modern times. "The solitary and forlorn shrine," says a 
British writer, " now stands a mere skeleton of what it was. A few 
faint traces of its sparkling decorations inlaid on solid mortar 
catches the rays of the sun, forever set on its splendour. . . . Only 
two of the spiral pillars remain. The wooden Ionic top is much 
broken, and covered with dust. The mosaic is picked away in 
every part within reach, only the lozenges of about a foot square 
and five circular pieces of the rich marble remain." — Malcom, 
Lond. rediv. 

Inscription on a Monument alluded to in the Sketch 

Here lyes the Loyal Duke of Newcastle, and his Duchess his 
second wife, by whom he had no issue. Her name was Margaret 
Lucas, youngest sister to the Lord Lucas of Colchester, a noble 
family ; for all the brothers were valiant, and all the sisters virtu- 
ous. This Duchess was a wise, witty, and learned lady, which her 
many Bookes do well testify : she was a most virtuous, and loving 
and careful wife, and was with her lord all the time of his banish- 
ment and miseries, and when he came home, never parted from 
him in his solitary retirements. 



In the winter time, when the days are short, the service in the 
afternoon is performed by the light of tapers. The effect is fine of 
the choir partially lighted up, while the main body of the cathedral 
and the transepts are in profound and cavernous darkness. The 
white dresses of the choristers gleam amidst the deep brown of the 
open slats and canopies ; the partial illumination makes enormous 
shadows from columns and screens, and darting into the surround- 
ing gloom, catches here and there upon a sepulchral decoration, or 
monumental effigy. The swelling notes of the organ accord well 
with the scene. 

When the service is over, the dean is lighted to his dwelling, in 
the old conventual part of the pile, by the boys of the choir, in their 
white dresses, bearing tapers, and the procession passes through the 



Notes 305 



abbey and along the shadowy cloisters, lighting up angles and 
arches and grim sepulchral monuments, and leaving all behind in 
darkness. 



On entering the cloisters at night from what is called the Dean's 
Yard, the eye ranging through a dark vaulted passage catches a 
distant view of a white marble figure reclining on a tomb, on which 
a strong glare thrown by a gaslight has quite a spectral effect. It 
is a mural monument of one of the Pultneys. 



THE MUTABILITY OF LITERATURE 

151 : 8. Drummond of Hawthornden. William Drummond 
(1585-1649), a distinguished Scotch poet. 

152 : 2. Doomsday Book. The famous survey of England 
made by the order of William the Conqueror. Its supreme author- 
ity is reflected in its name. 

154 : 12. Pronunciation. Pronunciation is constantly chang- 
ing. Shakespeare would probably be hard put to it to understand 
his own works if he could hear them now. 

156: 7. Robert Groteste, etc. The writers named in this para- 
graph are chiefly chroniclers who were members of English reli- 
gious orders in the twelfth century. 

157 : 7. Wynkyn de Worde. See note on 86 : 6. 

157 : 21. Robert of Gloucester. Flourished in the thirteenth 
century. 

157 : 29. Holinshed. Died 1580. His Chronicle was used by 
Shakespeare. 

158 : 1. English undefiled. It was Spenser himself {Faerie 
Queene, IV. ii. 3) who called Chaucer " well of English undefiled " 
(not "pure English"). 

159 : 12. Arcadia. Sir Philip Sidney's (1 554-1 586) romance, 
Arcadia, was written in 1580, published in 1590. 

159 : 12. Sackville. Thomas, Earl of Dorset (1536-1608). 

THE SKETCH-BOOK — 20 



306 Notes 



With Norton he wrote Gorboduc, the first English tragedy in blank 
verse. 

159 : 13. Mirror for Magistrates. A series of long, tragic 
poems, by various hands. Sackville wrote an Induction to the work. 

159 : 14. JohnLyly (71553-? 1600). Lyly, who was also a play- 
wright, wrote a sort of romance called Euphues, in a highly elaborate 
style of balanced sentence-structure, which we still call euphuism 
(not to be confused with euphemism). The book was such a great 
favourite that many persons tried to " parley euphuism," which is 
perhaps the " proverb " referred to by Irving in the next paragraph. 

159 : 29. Harvey. Gabriel Harvey (1 545-1 630), a well-known 
Elizabethan, who wrote in prose and verse. 

161 : 3. Often erased. A manuscript written over such an 
erasure is called a palimpsest. 

161 : 20. Great library. The present size of the British Museum 
library and of the Bibliotheque Nationale in Paris is about 2,000,000 
volumes each. The Library of Congress has 1,350,000 volumes. 

162 : 2. Economists. Irving is doubtless referring to Thomas 
Malthus ( 1 766-1 834). 

162 : 19. Little of Latin. Ben Jonson, in a poem to the memory 
of Shakespeare, said that his friend had " small Latin and less Greek." 

163 : 12. Commentators. Much of the comment on Shake- 
speare is worthless, but this image of a plant overrun by creepers is 
unfair to that kind of Shakespearean comment which is the result 
of keen and patient study. Without the aid of critical explanation, 
many of Shakespeare's finest meanings would be lost to readers 
of a later age. 

165:22. Churchyard. Thomas Churchyard (? 1520-1604), 
an Elizabethan poet and soldier. 

THE ART OF BOOK-MAKING 

166 : I. Synesius. A Lybian bishop of the fourth century. 

166:4. Burton. Robert Burton (1577-1640) published in 
1 62 1 a very famous and learned book, the Anatomy {i.e. analysis) 
of Melancholy, 



Notes 307 

167 : 13. Spacious chamber. Not the present enormous cir- 
cular reading room, where so many American students (one of 
whom is glad thus to acknowledge his gratitude) have received the 
constant courtesies of the English authorities. 

168 : 29. Pure English, undefiled. Irving's second misquota- 
tion of the words. See note on 158 : 1. 

169 : 27. Line upon line. See Isaiah xxviii. 10, for the exact 
words. 

170 : 3. "Slab and good." See Macbeth, iv. 1, for the exact 
words. 

172 : 22. The Paradise of Daintie Devices. One of the col- 
lections of miscellaneous pleasantries, verses, etc., in which the 
Elizabethans delighted. This book was mainly by M. Edwardes, 
and was published in 1576. 

173 : 12. Primrose Hill. A hill in the northwestern part of 
London. 

173 : x 3- Regent's Park is in the north-central part of the 
metropolis. 

173 : 16. Green fields. Henry V. ii. 3. 

174 : 7. Beaumont and Fletcher. Contemporaries of Shake- 
speare, and joint producers of many plays. The two men were 
often compared to the twins of classical mythology, Castor and 
Pollux. 

174 : 12. Harlequin. A character in Italian comedy, who al- 
ways wore a bright and variegated costume of lozenge-shaped 
figures. 

174 : 14. Patroclus. The friend of Achilles. 

174 : 28. Learned Theban. Lear, iii. 4. Thebans had the 
reputation, among the other Greeks, of being stupid. 

STRATFORD-ON-AVON 

176 : I. Avon. Pronounced A-von, not Av-on. 

176:5. Garrick. (1717— 1779.) David Garrick was one of the 

most famous English actors that ever lived. He was a playwright 
of some skill? and wrote some stray verse of no importance. 



308 Notes 

176 : 14. Very monarch. An allusion to the beginning of Cow- 
per's poem on Alexander Selkirk, the prototype of Robinson Crusoe. 

176 : 22. Take mine ease. This was Falstaff' s cry in / Henry 
IV., iii. 3. 

177 : I. Red Horse. This inn still flourishes at Stratford, and 
American visitors (immediately recognized by the hostess or wait- 
ress) are shown at once to a sitting room known as the Washington 
Irving room, in which are relics of Irving's stay in Stratford. The 
present editor little dreamt, when he was first ushered into the 
pleasant apartment, that he would one evening recall his recollec- 
tion of it to insert in a textbook. 

J 77 : 3- Sweet Shakespeare. Before Garrick, it was Milton 
who had called the poet, " Sweetest Shakespeare, fancy's child," 
and Ben Jonson who had named him " Sweet swan of Avon." 
Regarding the spelling of the poet's name, it may be said that the 
best usage favours " Shakespeare." 

177 : 14. Jubilee. A Shakespeare Jubilee, in which Garrick 
was one of the chief figures, was held in Stratford in 1769. 

177 : 29. Covered with names. The scrawling of names, that 
sign of strange vanity, is no longer permitted in the cottage. 

178 : 10. Matchlock. It is only tradition, not record, that 
makes Shakespeare responsible for poaching exploits. The tobacco- 
box, too, the sword, and the lantern, form a facetious climax of 
absurdity. Now that the Shakespeare house is administered by a 
committee in which are true scholars of the poet and his times, 
there is no effort at any imposition. 

178 : 12. Rival smoker. Sir Walter Raleigh brought tobacco 
into England in time for Shakespeare to be a smoker, but no one 
knows whether the poet smoked, or, in the Elizabethan term, 
* drank,' tobacco, or not. An argument against his smoking is that 
he says nothing in its favour; an argument in favour of his smok- 
ing is that he says nothing against it. We may leave the question 
hanging there. 

178 : 16. Mulberry tree. A mulberry tree grew in the garden 
of the house that Shakespeare bought on his return to Stratford, 



Notes 309 

Tradition supposes the poet to have planted the tree. It was, at 
any rate, an old tree when it was cut down in the middle of the 
eighteenth century. 

178 : 28. In this chair. This sentence may serve as an exam- 
ple of Irving's style at its worst. 

179 : 7. Santa Casa. The 'holy house ' of Loretto is, according 
to tradition, the house in which the Virgin Mary was born. It was 
carried by angels to Slavonia, in 1291, and thence to Italy, three 
years later. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries it was 
one of the most frequented points of pilgrimage. 

179 : 14. A ready believer. It is Irving's love of romance, 
tempered by the sense of humour, that speaks in this paragraph. 

180 : 19. Man and boy. The sexton in Hamlet (v. 1) used 
these words. 

181 : 8. Gossip knot. See page 48, line 11. 

181 : 20. "Bosom scenes." Tender and intimate scenes. 

r8i : 27. Scanty handful. As a matter of fact, instead of 
knowing very little about Shakespeare, we know a great deal, as 
compared with our knowledge of most of the other playwrights of 
the period. See Sidney Lee's Life of Shakespeare. 

182 : 15. Few visitors. Compare Introduction, pages 31-32. 

183 : 3. Written by himself. There is no proof for or against 
Shakespeare's authorship of these rugged lines, and the reader may 
decide for himself. The present editor sees in the verses neither 
Shakespeare's hand nor spirit. 

Irving (apart from not giving the old spelling completely) makes 
a slip in quoting. The inscription, which cannot be shown accu- 
rately in the typography of this volume, reads as follows : 

GOOD FREND FOR JESUS SAKE FORBEARE 
TO DIGG THE DUST ENCLOASED HERE. 
BLESE BE Y E MAN Y T SPARES THES STONES 
AND CURST BE HE Y T MOVES MY BONES. 

(The student is reminded that in the old forms y* and y e the first 
letter is not really a y, but the old English 'thorn' letter, equiva- 
lent to th. Consequently yt is pronounced ' that,' and y e is pro- 



310 Notes 

nounced * the.' Of course ' ye,' meaning ' you,' is pronounced as 
it is spelled.) 

184:16. Ludicrous epitaph. The student may decide whether 
Shakespeare was likely to write, even for a man who bled those 
who borrowed from him, an epitaph declaring that one who took 
ten per cent inte'rest ran ninety per cent risk of losing his soul. 

185 : 1. Plucked a branch. Note Irving's fine taste in choos- 
ing as a souvenir of his Stratford pilgrimage something character- 
istic of Shakespeare's surroundings, instead of trying, perhaps 
vainly, to get something characteristic of the poet himself. For 
had he not the poet's plays, as ample souvenir of the poet's nature? 
— One is tempted to comment briefly on this point. The desire to 
obtain tokens or souvenirs of your visit to a cherished place is 
wholly natural and often praiseworthy. But an act, legitimate 
when the visitors to the place are numbered by tens, becomes van- 
dalism when the place is visited by hundreds of thousands. The 
truest memory to bring away in such a case is the feeling that you 
have disturbed nothing whatever. 

186 : 13. Shallow. Notes, 103: 22. 

186 : 15. Luces. Many of the old insignia had a punning refer- 
ence to the bearer's name : thus, luce, Lucy. 

187 : 18. Elder Ireland. Samuel Ireland, who died in 1800, 
had a son who created a great sensation (1796) by declaring that 
he had found Shakespeare manuscripts and relics. His forgeries 
imposed on people for some time. 

190 : 23. Scot. Reginald Scot's Discover ie of Witchcraft 
(1584) is a book of much fascination to the Elizabethan student. 
The word Discoverie means exposure, and Scot (1538— 1599), in 
advance of his time, endeavoured to prove that there was no such 
thing as witchcraft. 

191 : 22. Pretended similarity. Persons more sentimental 
than scholarly still sometimes say that Gothic architecture is de- 
rived from an effort to imitate the effect of an aisle of forest trees. 
This is only fanciful. Gothic architecture grew from the attempt to 
cover a large space with vaults bearing a high-pitched roof. 



Notes 311 

192 : 19. Little song. As You Like It, ii. 5. 

193 : 23. Shallow's abode. 2 Henry IV. v. 3. 

195 : 13. First scene. This is the opening of the play of the 
Merry Wives of Windsor. To explain all the verbal allusions and 
characterizations in the passage would make a burdensome note. 
It is sufficient to say that an irascible justice, significantly named 
Shallow, and supposed to stand for Sir Thomas Lucy, is talking to 
a Welsh parson and a simple youth whose mind as well as his name 
is Slender. 

196 : 16. Sir Peter Lely (161 8-1 680). A Flemish painter, 
who lived in England, who was a pupil of van Dyck, and whose 
real name was Pieter van der Vaes. 

198 : 1. Cane- coloured. It is not Master Slender, but Slender's 
servant, Simple, who says of his master, * He hath but a little wee 
face, with a little yellow beard, a Cain-colored beard' (Merry 
Wives, i. 4). Cain-coloured refers to the first murderer, whose 
beard, in the old miracle plays, was probably reddish-yellow, as 
was that of Judas. 

198 : 17. Bishop Earle. John Earle (1601-1665) wrote Micro- 
cosmography in 1628. 

198 : 23. Gilpin. William Gilpin (1 724-1 804) wrote a life of 
Bernard Gilpin (1517—1583.) 

199 : 23. Cousin Silence. A country justice in 2 Henry IV. 
The three quotations are from Act v, Scenes 3, 1, and 3 respec- 
tively. 

200 : 27. Working-day world. As You Like It, i. 3. 

201 : 10. Jaques (usually pronounced on the stage * Jaq-wes ') 
and Rosalind are in As You Like It; the other four characters 
named in the paragraph, in The Merry Wives. 

THE ANGLER 

203 : 9. Wotton. Sir Henry Wotton (1 568-1 639), a man of 
letters and a diplomatist, has also this claim to our memory, that he 
was a friend of Milton. Most editions of Comus contain the 



312 Notes 

beautiful letter which Sir Henry, a man of seventy, wrote to the 
scholar-poet of thirty. The lines quoted at the beginning of this 
essay are from a poem entitled "On a Bank as I Sat a- Fishing" 
" That undervaluer of money, the late provost of Eton College, Sir 
Henry Wotton, a man with whom I have often fished and con- 
versed, a man whose foreign employment in the service of this 
nation, and whose experience, learning, wit, and cheerfulness, made 
his company to be esteemed one of the delights of mankind." 
— Izaak Walton, Compleat Angler, ch. I. 

203 : 17. Complete Angler. See 83 : 22 for dates. The old 
spelling Compleat is generally used in referring to the book. 

203 : 23. Don Quixote. (Usually pronounced in English, 
Quix'ot.) The hero of the immortal romance of Cervantes (1547- 
161 6), Don Quixote de la Mancha, had read so many romances of 
chivalric adventure of past days that nothing would content him 
save becoming a mediaeval knight himself. Note that Cervantes 
and Shakespeare died in the same year. 

205 : 10. Something like poetry. Compleat Angler, ch. 1. 

206 : 9. "Good, honest." Compleat Angler, ch. 5. 

206 : 13. Scene with the milkmaid. The milkmaid and her 
mother sang three songs to the fishermen, in return for the present 
of a freshly-caught fish. Compleat Angler, ch. 4. 

207 : 15. "Brothers of the angle." Compleat Angler, ch. 5. 
207 : 17. "Mild, peaceable." " Mild and sweet and peaceable 

spirits." Compleat Angler, ch. I. 

207 : 19. Tretyse of fishing. Usually attributed to Juliana 
Berners, a fifteenth century abbess of varied interests. Wynkyn de 
Worde printed the book in 1496. 

208 : 17. Piscator. Literally, fisherman, the principal character 
in Walton's book. 

209 : 16. Camperdown. A naval battle won by the English 
over the Dutch in 1797. 

211 : 9. Beget content. Compleat Angler, Ch. 21. 

212 : 28. J. Davors. Irving followed Walton in quoting the 
poem as from " Davors " who seems only a name, not a person. 



Notes 313 



The quotation is from The Secrets of Angling, by J. D., Esquire, 
1 61 3. The book, which has been ascribed variously to John Den- 
nys, John Davies, and John Donne, was written by John Dennys, a 
fact recorded in the Stationers' Register. Irving quotes incor- 
rectly : line 4, ' pike ' should be * perch ; ' line 9, ' will ' should be 
< list/ 

212 : 22. Naval ballads. Ballads of the kind referred to were 
printed on large sheets of paper and were called broadsides. Ad- 
miral Hosier's Ghost, by Richard Glover, tells of the death of the 
admiral, by fever, in 1727 ; All in the Downs is Gay's Black-Eyed 
Susan ; Tom Bowline (or Bowling) is by Dibdin. 

214 : 11. Sinbad. In the Arabian Nights, 

215 : 7. St. Peter. Matthew iv. 18. 

THE LEGEND OF SLEEPY HOLLOW 

216 : 1. Diedrich Knickerbocker. The jocose name under 
which Irving wrote his History of A 7 ew York. 

216 : 7. Castle of Indolence. A poem by James Thomson 
(1700 -1 748), well known as the author of The Seasons. 

216 : 12. St. Nicholas. He was a bishop in Lycia, and be- 
cause on a voyage to the Holy Land he stilled the waves in a 
storm, he became the patron of sailors. His day is December 6. 

217 : 27. Hendrick Hudson. An English navigator, only four 
years of whose life are known. In a voyage to America for the 
Dutch East India Company in 1609 he sailed up the river which 
now bears his name. The river, however, had been discovered 
long before. (See Dictionary of National Biography?) 

218 : 9. Nightmare . . . ninefold. One of Edgar's snatches of 
song in Lear, iii. 4. 

218:16. Hessian trooper. Hessian mercenaries were employed 
by England in the American Revolution. 

219 : 2. Before daybreak. Dawn marks the limit of a ghost's 
privilege to haunt the earth. Thus the spirit of Hamlet's father 
fades at cock-crow. Hamlet, i. 1. 



314 Notes 



223 : 3. Lion bold. In the old New England Primer, the let- 
ter L is illustrated by a rude cut of a lion protecting a lamb : 
The Lion bold The Lamb doth hold. 

224 : 4. Man of letters. A very deft way of referring to a 
primary schoolmaster who teaches the alphabet. 

224 : 20. Cotton Mather. A famous New England clergyman 
(1663-1728). 

225 : 22. Linked sweetness. D Allegro, 140. 

227 : 23. Ornaments. To this day the Dutch peasant women 
wear the golden ornaments inherited from mother to daughter for 
many generations. One of the most valuable and conspicuous of 
these precious possessions is the smooth golden cap which is worn 
under a cap of lace and linen. 

230 : 13. Pacing mare. Narragansett pacers were famous in 
those days. 

231 : 9. Asparagus tops. Filling up the fire-place in the 
season when fires were not needed. 

235 : 8. Wooed and won. Irving here took refuge in the fact 
that he was a bachelor. 

2 37 •' I 3- Cap of Mercury. A simple, rather flat, circular cap, 
with two wings. 

240 : 14. Jolly Autumn. Compare Irving's description of 
autumn with Keats's Ode to Autumn. 

242 : 4. Eel-skin. Plaited in with the queue. 

244 : 12. Saint Vitus. A Sicilian child saint (about the end of the 
third century) who was imprisoned in order to make him renounce 
Christianity, and in whose cell angels danced. His day is June 15. 

245 : 16. Whiteplains. 1776. Washington repulsed by the 
British. 

246 : 21. Major Andre. (1751-1780.) A gallant British offi- 
cer hanged as a spy in the Revolutionary War. 

249 : 20. Very witching. " 'Tis now the very witching time of 
night." Hamlet, iii. 2. 

257 : 30. Ten Pound Court. One in which cases were tried 
which did not involve larger claims than ten pounds (fifty dollars). 



Notes 315 



RIP VAN WINKLE 

260 : 1. Knickerbocker. See 216 : 1. 

260 : 6. Cartwright. See 62 : 9. 

261 : 16. Farthing. One fourth of a penny. Farthings of 
Queen Anne's reign are very rare coins. 

262 : 20. Peter Stuyvesant was the seventh colonial governor 
of New York, and served during the years 1647- 1664. 

262 : 21. Fort Christina. A Swedish settlement founded on 
the Delaware river by Peter Minuit, in 1638 ; seized by Peter 
Stuyvesant in 1655. 

276 : 5. Red nightcap. The bonnet rouge, or red cap of lib- 
erty in the French Revolution, used as a symbol by the Americans 
as well. 

276 : 29. Babylonish. Genesis xi. 9. 

277 : 10. Federal or Democrat. The two chief parties in the 
early days of the republic were the Federal and the Republican, 
the latter afterward assuming the name Democrat. 

278 : 13. Stony Point. Captured in 1779 by General Wayne. 
278 : 15. Antony's Nose. A promontory on the Hudson. 



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themes covering these subjects, the purpose being to give the 
pupil inspiration, and that confidence in himself which comes 
from the frequent repetition of an act. A single new princi- 
ple is introduced into each theme, and this is developed in 
the text, and illustrated by carefully selected examples. 
•fj The pupils are taught how to correct their own errors, 
and also how to get the main thought in preparing their 
lessons. Careful coordination with the study of literature 
and with other school studies is made throughout the book. 
^| The modern character of the illustrative extracts can not 
fail to interest every boy and girl. Concise summaries are 
given folio wingthe treatment of the various forms of discourse, 
and toward the end of the book there is a very comprehensive 
and compact summary of grammatical principles. More than 
usual attention is devoted to the treatment of argument. 



AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

(S. 88) 



ESSENTIALS IN AMERICAN 
HISTORY 

From the Discovery to the Present Day. By ALBERT 
BUSHNELL HART, LL.D., Professor of History, 
Harvard University. Price, $1.50 



PROFESSOR HART was a member of the Committee 
of Seven, and consequently is exceptionally qualified to 
supervise the preparation of a series of text-books which 
carry out the ideas of that Committee. The needs of sec- 
ondary schools, and the entrance requirements to all colleges, 
are fully met by the Essentials in History Series. 
^| This volume reflects in an impressive manner the writer's 
broad grasp of the subject, his intimate knowledge of the 
relative importance of events, his keen insight into the cause 
and effect of each noteworthy occurrence, and his thorough 
familiarity with the most helpful pedagogical features. 
^[ The purpose of the book is to present an adequate de- 
scription of all essential things in the upbuilding of the 
country, and to supplement this by good illustrations and 
maps. Political geography, being the background of all 
historical knowledge, is made a special topic, while the 
development of government, foreign relations, the diplo- 
matic adjustment of controversies, and social and economic 
conditions have been duly emphasized. 
^j All sections of the Union, North, East, South, West, and 
Far West, have received fair treatment. Much attention is 
paid to the causes andresults of our various wars, but only the 
most significant battles and campaigns have been described. 
The book aims to make distinct the character and public 
services of some great Americans, brief accounts of whose 
lives are given in special sections of the text. 



AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY 

(S. 119) 



OCT 21 190? 



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